Bought the T-Shirt
by Qweb
Summary: "When it comes to the second half of the 20th century, I've been there, done that, and I even still have some of the T-shirts," Leslie said. "What do undershirts have to do with anything?" Steve asked. SHIELD assigns someone to help Steve adapt to the 21st century. Romance is out. She's old enough to be his mother — or young enough to be his daughter. Depends on how you look at it.
1. Bought the T-Shirt

_A/N: This is my first story with a major OC character. I hope you like it._

 **Bought the T-Shirt**

Maria Hill entered the SHIELD Clerical Office, where rows of young men and women sat at computers entering and sorting data from reports. They chatted as they worked, everyone in a twitter (lower case only, upper case would be a violation of organizational secrecy) about the recently revived Super Soldier and his escape from SHIELD HQ.

"Such a body," a young woman sighed. "I would definitely tap that."

"Who wouldn't?" a young man said, getting murmurs of agreement from around the room.

When she saw Hill at the counter, one of the clerks left her machine. "Deputy Director, how may we help you?"

"I'm looking for someone to introduce Captain Rogers to the 21st century," Maria said dryly.

"I volunteer!" The young man's hand shot up, along with half the room.

"It's not nice to tease the children, Maria," chided a voice from the back of the office.

Through a door at the very back, Maria could see ranks of filing cabinets and doors leading off into storage spaces deep in the bowels of the building where only the bravest dared explore.

All the clerks stiffened to attention. Their eyes locked on their screens and their fingers flew faster, when they heard that voice.

"I already told you I'd do it, poor man," the woman continued.

Senior Clerk Leslie Reynolds emerged from her domain, running a critical eye over her hard working crew. The 60-year-old woman wore blue crinkle slacks with a white blouse and a navy blazer. She was short, just a tick over 5-feet tall, and carried about 20 pounds more than she ought to. Her shoulder-length hair was mousy brown. You could only see threads of gray in it if you peered closely, which nobody dared to do because this was her domain and had been for more than 30 years.

"Imagine leaving him at the mercy of one of these man-eaters," Leslie said, shaking her head and pushing her glasses farther up her nose.

"What a waste," a woman lamented. "You're so ..." The woman stopped herself from saying the last word.

"Old?" Leslie said it for her. "That's kind of the point. I grew up on the edge of his time. I remember things like milkmen and party lines and rotary phones. I saw the 20th century develop into the 21st, so I can understand him better than you babies who teethed on smartphones."

"Yes, ma'am," the woman said in disappointment.

"Are you ready to go?" Maria asked Leslie.

"I was just packing a few things," the older woman answered.

She hauled a large wheeled suitcase out of the back room.

"Just a few things?" Maria said in amusement, eying the large suitcase.

"I just thought I'd bring a few things to make the captain feel more at home," Leslie retorted. "Plus my own gear, of course. Since you said I'd be staying at least a week."

There was a concerted groan from her department. "A week with Steve Rogers!" someone moaned enviously.

"A week showing a foreign visitor around New York," Leslie corrected sharply. "What happens here, stays here." Her team might gossip among themselves, but never outside the office, not even to other SHIELD personnel.

"Yes, Les!" the crowd chorused, then giggled, amused by the rhyme (which they used all the time).

"Children!" Leslie groaned to Maria, but there was a twinkle in the clerk's eyes.

* * *

A doorman opened the front door of the discreet SHIELD apartment building. If Maria and Leslie hadn't been expected and identified by facial recognition on the sidewalk, they never would have gotten inside. A concierge nodded from a desk in the lobby that concealed a dozen security monitors.

Leslie knew the doorman and the concierge were heavily armed and ready to repel attackers. She was glad she was expected. Her unarmed combat skills were nonexistent.

Leslie towed her wheeled suitcase across a patterned runner that she knew concealed an X-ray machine like those at airports.

The concierge raised an eyebrow at Leslie when he saw the odd shapes of things in her suitcase. She made a face at him, forcing him to fight a smile.

Maria planted her palm on the scanner beside the door and spoke an identification phrase into the panel in a voice too low for even Leslie to hear. The code and her voice opened the elevator.

The two women rode up in silence and went down the hall to an apartment.

Maria repeated the identification procedure at the door, then she politely knocked but entered without waiting for a response.

Leslie lifted her weighty suitcase over the threshold, then stopped just inside the door.

A young blonde woman in maroon nurse's scrubs chattered to a young blond man sitting beside her on the couch. There was a bleak, blank expression on the man's face, but he peered politely at the cellphone the nurse held up, while she paged through photos on the screen.

"This is Crockett sitting on Robbie's head. Doesn't he look like a mountain man's coonskin cap?" she asked.

Captain Steve Rogers agreed that the cat's fluffy tabby tail did look like a coonskin cap on her fiancé's head.

When Maria and Leslie entered, Steve immediately stood with ingrained politeness. He saw the suitcase and offered to help Leslie with it.

"Not necessary, captain," she replied. She pushed a button to raise the handle, then she towed the wheeled suitcase deeper into the room.

Steve's eyes brightened with appreciative curiosity.

"That's very clever," he said. For a moment he forgot his troubles as he learned something new.

Leslie mentally patted herself on her back for getting that smile from him. Her basic plan was to reveal new things like a magic trick, to intrigue the captain without scaring him. Everything she knew about him said he wasn't dumb. She didn't want to treat him as if he was.

"I lugged a big old suitcase back and forth to college. I was so happy when they put wheels on suitcases," Leslie said.

"Captain Rogers, this is Leslie Reynolds," Maria Hill made the introductions and Leslie offered her hand.

Steve's handshake was gentle but firm, perfectly judged. Leslie could write a book about handshakes. She hated the people, not all of them men, who squeezed her hand so hard her bones ground together.

"It's an honor to meet you, captain," she said.

"Thank you, Agent Reynolds."

"Oh, I'm not an agent, captain. I'm a file clerk," Leslie said impishly. "And you can call me, Leslie."

"Please call me, Steve," he responded automatically, even as he turned to Maria with a question in his eyes. "Um, didn't you say my … awakening is top secret?"

"And you're wondering how a file clerk rates," Maria suggested.

Steve looked an apology at Leslie who smiled kindly.

"She's not just a file clerk," Maria said. "She's Director Fury's file clerk. She knows where all the bodies are buried."

"Sometimes literally," Leslie murmured.

"She can be trusted," Maria finished. "She has been trusted for nearly 35 years. She's been with SHIELD longer than I have. Longer than I've been alive, actually."

"The main reason they chose me was my age, Cap … Steve," Leslie corrected herself. "I was born in the mid-1950s. I've seen most of the changes that kids take for granted these days. I'm young enough to be your daughter, but, by apparent age, I'm old enough to be your mother. I can deal with today's technology, but I remember growing up without it. I think I'll be able to understand most of your questions."

"Bourkin acted like the captain was an idiot," the nurse, Melody Harris, volunteered with disapproval. She had packed up her medical gear and was getting ready to leave. "Just because the captain didn't understand what he meant by internet and streaming. And when I said the captain needed a landline, he sneered at me and installed that monstrosity."

She pointed at a huge cordless phone plugged into the wall.

"It looks like a walkie-talkie, but with more buttons," Steve volunteered, eying the device with suspicion. It did remind Leslie of World War II era walkie-talkies.

"I told Bourkin to get out and we'd get someone with manners to install the rest of the electronics," Melody said, her Southern accent getting stronger in remembered agitation. "He said he'd report me. I said I wasn't the one who'd be in trouble," Melody said with a flip of her head. As the medical professional, she had the right to remove anyone who was annoying her patient.

Maria's eyes narrowed in anger. "I'll see to it," she said shortly.

"You don't have to send anyone for the electronics. Steve and I will plug everything in," Leslie said. "It's good practice. In the meantime …" She zipped open her suitcase, rummaged for a moment, then pulled out a recognizable telephone. Steve sighed in relief.

"It has buttons instead of a dial, but it's got to be simpler than this thing." Leslie unplugged the cordless phone and plugged in the simpler phone. She checked the handset for a dial tone, nodded in satisfaction, and hung up again. "It even rings," she told Melody and Maria.

"What else would it do?" Steve asked.

"Some phones buzz or play tunes. This is more old school."

"Old school. Is that what I am?" Steve asked a little sadly.

Melody patted his arm. "It's not a bad thing," she assured him. "Old school in in right now."

"Melody, were you boring Captain Rogers with your cat photos?" Leslie teased, as a distraction.

The nurse looked momentarily guilty, but Steve assured her and Leslie that he was grateful for Melody's conversation.

"I didn't want to talk, or even think," he confessed, the overwhelmed, shell-shocked look returning to his eyes.

Melody patted his arm again. "Don't worry, Leslie will take care of you," she promised. "She's like everyone's favorite aunt."

"Not everyone's favorite," Leslie said dryly.

"Everyone who matters; everyone who has manners," the girl retorted.

"We picked Melody to stay with you because she always knows when patients want to talk and when they don't. I promise, she's as good a listener as she is a talker," Leslie said.

Melody smiled brightly at the compliment.

"Thank you, Miss Harris," Maria said, dismissing the nurse.

"Ah, back to work," Melody sighed. "It was a pleasure meeting you, captain," she said, offering her hand.

"Thank you for your help," Steve answered.

Melody gave them all bright smiles and left the room. When the door closed behind her, Leslie said, "Another reason we picked Melody is that she would be professional and not ogle you or try to get fresh. She's besotted with her fiancé and her six cats."

"Ten cats," Steve said. "Punkin had kittens," he explained.

"I'll have to send congratulations," Leslie said seriously, making Maria snort.

"What else do you have in your bag of tricks?" Maria asked.

Leslie unzipped an outside pocket and retrieved two notebooks, one pocket size and one school size, along with an assortment of pens and pencils.

"Did you have ballpoint pens?" Leslie asked, holding out a plain black ink pen and clicking it a couple of times to show how it worked.

"Ballpoint?" Steve mouthed.

Leslie demonstrated writing with it on a page in the small notebook, then handed both over.

Steve clicked the pen, studying it, and smiled. "A Biro," he identified it.

Leslie mouthed "Biro"?

"Monty talked the RAF boys out of a few of these. They worked much better in the field than fountain pens and they made darker marks than pencils," Steve said. "They didn't do this, though." He clicked the tip in and out a few times. "They had caps."

"I don't know the word Biro," Leslie admitted.

"The Brits use it sometimes," Maria said. "Must be an early brand name."

"The flyboys liked them because they didn't leak at high altitudes," Steve said. "We liked them because they didn't need to be refilled constantly."

He made an elegant swirling spiral on the paper, then turned his attention to the other writing instruments. Pencils were familiar. Felt tips were new, but easy enough to figure out. And they had caps.

"Make sure to keep them capped or the tip will dry out," Leslie warned. "You can use these to take notes of anything that is unfamiliar, then we can go over your quesitons at our leisure. OK?"

"Yes, ma'am," Steve said with a military snap that made Leslie chuckle.

"Leslie will be staying with you for a few days to help you get familiar with the 21st century. And to help you get steeled in with clothes and food and whatever you need," Maria said. Then to Leslie, she added, "May I speak to you for a moment?"

The women went into the kitchen area. Steve moved to the far side of the living room to give them privacy. He began making notes, trying out the pens.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Maria asked quietly. "I only called for a recommendation, not to recruit you."

Leslie chuckled. "I couldn't think of a better recommendation than myself," she said. "When it comes to the second half of the 20th century, I've been there, done that, and I even still have some of the T-shirts."

"It could be dangerous," Maria warned. "I would be a miracle if he didn't have PTSD."

"He's sad, not dangerous, Maria. I'll stay out of the super soldier's way if he has a nightmare, I promise. As for the rest, I get to go on a shopping spree with company money and spend time with a living legend, who happens to be the handsomest man I've ever seen. Trust me, it'll be fun."

Leslie saw Steve's head duck in embarrassment. She tsked at herself.

"I think we're forgetting about his enhanced senses," she told Maria. "Can you hear us, Steve?" she asked without raising her voice.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

"Not your fault." Leslie waved away his apology. "Do you have any questions before Maria leaves?"

"Dozens," Steve confessed, showing a closely written page of notes in the small notebook. The first notes were written in different pens and pencils, but he'd settled on the ballpoint by the end.

"Pick one," Leslie said good-naturedly.

"What do undershirts have to do with anything?" Steve asked.

* * *

 _A/N: So, Leslie is the most Mary Sue character I've written. I've tossed myself in a couple of stories as a tourist (in Five-0) or a grocery shopper (in Team) but Leslie is mostly me. She's more assertive than I've ever been and more important, but what she knows is what I remember and any mistakes are my own mistakes from the passage of time. (At least she doesn't have superpowers.) What Steve knows is what I have to look up, like the history of ballpoints (Any Brits familiar with the term biros? My spellchecker knows it, but I'd never heard of it.) and how long ago T-shirts were called T-shirts (longer than I'd expected). I've read and enjoyed many "introduce Steve to the 21_ _st_ _century" stories, but they got me thinking, what kind of person would I pick to help him? I picked myself. And I needed a break from Winter Soldier torture. Don't worry; I have more Reconstruction stories in mind._


	2. Why Was I Wearing Boots in Bed?

**Why Was I Wearing Boots in Bed?**

"T-shirts were basically undershirts back before the war," Leslie told Maria. "Though workmen would strip down to their tees when they were working in hot conditions, to keep their good shirts from getting sweaty and stained."

"I know that I've seen pictures of sailors with T-shirts, all white of course," Maria agreed.

"Not very many tees had logos, but I guess the SSR did," Leslie said, nodding at the shirt Steve wore. He was still dressed in his escape outfit, khakis, boots and a white tee with the SSR eagle on it.

"The T-shirt was based on what Captain Rogers was wearing when he was found," Maria said.

"The clothes were kinda suspicious," Steve said.

"I thought it was the baseball game that tipped you off?" Maria said.

"That, the clothes the 'nurse' was wearing and the clothes I was wearing," Steve said. "If I'd woken up in my uniform or what I wore under my uniform, it would have made sense. If I'd woken up in underwear or pajamas, it would have made sense, but I had a shirt like my undershirt, khaki pants like my Army uniform and boots. Why was I wearing boots in bed?"

"I have no idea," Maria admitted.

"I would have been less suspicious if I'd been barefoot," Steve said.

"Would have been harder for you to run through the streets of New York, too," Maria joked.

"Wouldn't have been the first time," Steve and Leslie said together, then grinned at each other.

"He was barefoot when he chased down Dr. Erskine's killer," Leslie explained to Maria. "I've read your file," she added to Steve. "There were a few weeks between when you were found and when you woke up. I had time to collect all the files."

"And read them," Maria teased.

Leslie shrugged. "It's what I do."

"Um, 'bought the T-shirt'?" Steve prompted, trying to reroute the derailed conversation.

"Right. Nowadays, T-shirts come in many colors and are most often worn as outer garments, though undershirt tees still exist," Leslie said. "T-shirts are so popular, that most tourist attractions, concerts, movies, museums, special events, etc. sell commemorative T-shirts. 'Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt' is a slangy away of saying you've been through that before. Someone might say, oh, the pipes broke and flooded my basement. And someone who'd had a similar plumbing emergency might say…"

"Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt." Steve nodded understanding.

"And I really do have T-shirts for important occasions of the past 50 years," Leslie said with a sigh for her packrat nature. "Some I can't wear any more, but I can't bear to throw them away."

"What else have you written down?" Maria asked Steve.

Steve was about to answer when his stomach growled audibly.

Leslie smacked her forehead. "Of course, you're hungry, you just woke up! Let's stop standing around the kitchen and put the table and chairs to use."

She began rummaging through the kitchen to see what was available. The prospects were skimpy. Milk, butter and eggs in the refrigerator; a loaf of bread and some cereal in the cupboard. "At least someone had breakfast in mind," Leslie muttered, though it was nearing noon by this time.

Steve reached past Leslie to pluck a box out of the cupboard. He grinned to find Kellogg's Corn Flakes, a new box design but a familiar brand.

Leslie handed him a bowl and the milk. "Here, start with that. I'll scramble some eggs. That should hold us until we go grocery shopping."

At least there was a modest selection of pots and pans and dishes. There was a microwave and a toaster and a coffee maker with no coffee to go in it. Leslie gave Maria a look. The deputy director threw up her hands.

"We had the basic equipment delivered, but we had to scramble to get the rest set up this morning," she said. "We thought we'd keep the captain close to base for awhile. We didn't expect him to make a public appearance. We had to get him undercover quick and didn't have time to collect perishables. The concierge brought over his personal stash of breakfast food."

Leslie realized the butter was unwrapped with just a little removed and the cornflakes were already open. She should have been more wary of unsealed food, but then she wasn't a field agent.

"I'm taking someone else's food?" Steve asked with his mouth full. Then he swallowed the cereal and milk and repeated his question, wiping a bead of milk from the corner of his mouth.

"He'll be reimbursed," Maria promised. "I'll even put him in for a bonus for quick thinking."

Mollified, Steve began eating again. The women realized he must be starving, so Maria began making toast while Leslie whipped up a batch of scrambled eggs. "Four enough?" she asked.

"Yes, please. If it's not too much trouble."

With his hunger pangs appeased by corn flakes, Steve waited patiently for the eggs. "Why the big rush?" he asked. "Why does Director Fury want my … revival kept top secret?"

Standing by the toaster, Maria looked troubled. She knew about the Avengers Initiative, but Captain America hadn't been figured into the equation last she'd heard. "I don't know," she admitted. "Fury likes to play his cards close to his vest."

Steve nodded, understanding the poker metaphor.

"He always has a plan for his assets," Maria continued.

"Assets?" Steve wondered, not liking the term much.

"But his plans generally involve protecting his assets as much as he can," Leslie put in. "He has to send people into danger, but he doesn't send them blindly. He makes sure they're taken care of, physically and mentally. So he might just be giving you time to adjust."

Maria nodded. She added two pieces of toast to the plate piled with Leslie's eggs and pushed the plate to Steve.

"If we make a public announcement that Captain America is alive, you'll be bombarded by news people, politicians, historians, the Army … everyone will want a piece of you. It will be less difficult to adjust, if you're just plain Steve Rogers for a while. Unless you want to jump into the spotlight?"

Steve made a face. "Had enough of the limelight with the USO," he agreed.

"So, if you can't be Captain America, born in 1918 on the Fourth of July — really?" Maria said, getting a nod and a shrug. "Then we have to give you a new identity, Captain Steve Rogers born, oh, 1981."

"It's not suspicious that I have Cap's name?"

"Lots of people have named their kids after you," Leslie answered. "All you have to say is, 'My dad was a big fan.'"

Steve grinned. Leslie liked this boyish look better than his sad, shell-shocked look.

"And nobody noticed me running like a madman through Times Square?"

"Of course, people have even tweeted photos," Maria started, then stopped at Leslie's frown.

"Forget about tweeting for a minute," Leslie said before Steve could ask. "They sent photos and messages to a lot of their friends."

"Not good photos, fortunately," Maria said. "We put out a story about a soldier who suffered a PTSD episode and ran from a military clinic. But he was talked down by his therapist and is now safely back where he belongs. His name, of course, has not been released because of medical privacy laws," she finished piously.

Leslie snorted.

"PTSD," Steve said. "That's the second time you've used that term. It's on my list." He tapped the little notebook beside his plate.

"PTSD stands for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," Leslie said. "It's the current term for what you might know as shellshock or battle fatigue, because the disorder is not limited to soldiers. Crime victims and accident victims also can suffer from nightmares, flashbacks, depression and other symptoms."

Steve gave her a sober nod of understanding.

Maria Hill was not a fan of Fury's Avengers Initiative. She thought he'd been hanging out with Coulson too much. She didn't trust heroes, because they tended to get themselves killed — as, indeed, Captain America had. But she understood and empathized with soldiers. So she ignored Captain America and spoke to Captain Rogers.

"Captain, I was a Marine. I served in a war zone. I understand how hard it is to come home. And you've come so much farther than most. Everything is different when you get out. People have changed and not for the better. They're so much more chaotic, with no discipline and no team spirit. I've seen men, good strong men and women, too, who couldn't cope. Who drove their families away because they couldn't adapt to civilian life. Who took their own lives and, in the most tragic case, who took the lives of his wife and children before he turned the gun on himself."

"Are you trying to tell me I'm not so special?" Steve asked with a sad attempt at humor.

"No, I'm trying to say that you're not alone," Maria said vehemently. "There are people who can understand. There are people who have come home from war zones and found themselves alone in a changed world. There are people who have suffered terrible losses and professionals who help them. And there are people who are both. There is also a large body of evidence that talking about trauma does help. Being the strong silent type is not good mental health. Leslie is a good, sympathetic ear, but if she's not enough, we will find whoever you need. If you'd prefer to talk to a professional therapist, or a man, or a veteran, we can find that person and get them cleared to talk to Captain America. I can hardly comprehend the loss you have suffered, but we want to help you. Just tell us what you need."

Steve looked down at his hands, then met Maria's eyes.

"I don't know what I need. I've hardly been able to understand it. When Bucky told me we were going to the future, he meant to see the flying car at the Stark Expo. But that visit led me here, to the actual future, to the 21st century! Everyone I knew must be dead by now, or really old, and I can't … but it's just yesterday to me. Right now my big regret is that I made a date with Peggy and I stood her up. That's all I've managed to wrap my head around." His eyes were dry, but they could hear the tears in his voice.

Leslie wrapped her hand around the fist he clenched on the tabletop.

"We'll start with the easy things," she said. "We'll start with buying groceries and clothes and working today's electronic devices. Give you time to settle, to adjust. Then we'll get into the harder questions."

"Like what happened to all my friends," Steve said. "And whether we won the war."

"We'll do some research on your friends," Leslie lied like a pro. She had all the answers at her fingertips, but her orders were to delay any history lessons. And she had to agree. She thought Steve needed a little time first. Doctors stabilized patients before performing surgery. Steve needed to be grounded in the 21st century before finding out about Peggy Carter and the Commandos.

"As for the war," Maria said briskly. "In brief, Hydra and the Nazis failed. The Allies won, but weren't as vindictive as the winners were in World War I. Germany and Japan are allies of the U.S. and good trading partners now. Italy, too. Britain and France are still our friends. The Soviet Union has dissolved, but Russia is still powerful and is our friend sometimes and adversary sometimes, it depends on the day of the week."

Steve snorted, because that described the USSR in his day, too.

"We still have wars, mostly in Asia and the Middle East, but we haven't had a global conflict since your war ended. That's just the short version, OK?"

"Thank you," Steve said in a faint, choked voice.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Cap." Maria's sympathetic tone gave the conventional words more emphasis. "None of us can go back in time. We can only go forward."

Steve gripped the hand she offered, then Maria Hill said goodbye, again promised to get him whatever he needed and went back to work. She had a tech to reprimand and a nurse and a concierge to commend.

Leslie busied herself washing the skillet while Steve sat with his head in his hands. After a few moments, he took a deep steadying breath, then stood up and began drying the skillet. When he reached for his breakfast plate, Leslie directed him to put it in the dishwasher.

"I don't like to put cooking pans and mixing bowls in the dishwasher, but it sterilizes plates nicely."

"It's only one plate, one bowl and a knife, fork and spoon," Steve protested.

"You may wash by hand if you prefer," Leslie said indulgently. "It's not bad when you live alone." But she showed him how to load the dishwasher and how to put the soap in.

"Never ever use this soap," she said, pointing to the liquid dishwashing soap. "This is for the sink. It foams up too much for the dishwasher. You'll get a comical but annoying flood of bubbles."

While they finished cleaning up the kitchen, Leslie considered Steve's needs. They needed groceries right away and they needed to get Steve some more clothes.

"I can't believe this is what you were wearing when you woke up," Leslie said. "Who goes to bed with his boots on?"

"I know. It was strange," Steve said. "It was like I'd just laid down for a nap. But the last I remembered was the crash."

"I don't know what they were thinking." Leslie had her hand s on her hips, shaking her head. "And who picked that T-shirt for you. It's two sizes too small. Isn't it too tight?"

Steve looked down at his outfit. "Um, I like my T-shirts tight," he confessed. "Before the serum, all my clothes were too big, too sloppy. I feel … neater this way," he almost pleaded.

Leslie patted his arm. "If that's the way you like them, then it's fine. There's a lot of leeway in fashion these days. And I'm sure no woman who sees you will mind. You fill out that shirt very nicely, Steven."

Steve blushed at the praise. "I forget," he confessed. "I'm still surprised to look in a mirror and not see the little guy."

Leslie punched him friendly like. "I'll tell you something, pal. Even when you were a little guy, you would have been taller than I am."

It was obviously true. Steve laughed. "I wish I'd known you then."

"I'm glad to know you now," Leslie replied. "Now, we need to go out and eat and pick up groceries for tomorrow. Before we start our expedition into the wilds of the 21st century, I want to give you a quick intro to modern telecommunications, in case we get separated. Then a crash course in finance, because prices today will be shocking."

"Will we actually set foot outside today?" Steve teased. "Or will we have corn flakes for dinner and breakfast?"

"No, we will brave New York City!" Leslie declared pompously. "When we go out, the first thing we will do is go to a bank, where I will teach you how to get money out of the wall," she said impishly.

"The wall?"

* * *

 _A/N: Looking back at Steve's wake up scene at the end of CA: TFA, I realized he's wearing an SSR T-shirt, a pair of khaki pants and boots. Why boots? For a practical concern, maybe Chris balked at doing another barefoot run through the streets. It couldn't have been comfortable. And you can't clean up Times Square like you can a 1940s-set back lot. But from a SHIELD point of view, why would they put boots on him?_


	3. Communication

_A/N: I'm upping the rating on this to T because of non-politically correct language to come. Warning that Steve will use a rude word in this chapter. He is quoting a taunt that was thrown at him. In no way do Steve or this author approve or endorse the use of racial, sexual or ethnic slurs._

 _Sorry for the late post. I got busy shopping for the Labor Day holiday._

* * *

 **Communication**

"People get money out of the wall?" Steve Rogers asked.

"It is the wall of the bank," Leslie Reynolds admitted with a shrug.

"I don't have any money in the bank," Steve pointed out.

"SHIELD has provisions for refugees and defectors, people who come to us with nothing. For now, you're being paid out of that account," Leslie said.

"Does that mean I'm on SHIELD's payroll?"

"I'm sure Director Fury would like that eventually," Leslie admitted. "But you are not obligated," she said firmly. "In any case, you will have your own money soon. The Army owes you back pay, for one thing."

"I don't think they'll pay up when they still think I'm dead," Steve pointed out.

Leslie nodded agreement. "That will be a tussle for a later date. There is another bank account in your name. Hill is working to transfer the funds to your checking account."

"I've never had a checking account," Steve said, distracted by the term. "Only a savings account."

"You do now," Leslie assured him. "They're very common now. And they're not as restricted as they used to be." (When you couldn't cash an out-of-state check, or maybe even an out-of-town check.)

Steve was suspicious of free money. Money always meant obligations. "Where do these funds come from?" he asked.

"Howard Stark," Leslie answered, to Steve's surprise. "Howard always felt guilty about not finding you. He went out and paid for expeditions to find your crash site for nearly 30 years. SHIELD grew out of the SSR and Howard was one of the founders. He set up a fund to provide for continued searches, to pay for a funeral if your body was found and to provide for you if you were somehow found alive. Over the years, finding you alive seemed more and more unlikely, but Howard never changed the provisions. Various SHIELD administrators have tried to break the clause and absorb the funds into the general SHIELD account but Howard had the best lawyers and they locked it up tight. The money isn't part of SHIELD's budget, but it is administered by SHIELD. We know you're alive, so we can transfer that money to you. Maria just has to wade through the legalities."

Steve said, "It can't be much after all these years of expeditions."

Leslie coughed in disagreement. "Howard put cash and Stark Industries stock into the fund. The stock has been very profitable. You could easily live a life of leisure on the income."

"You call him Howard. Did you know him?"

"I met him. SHIELD was still pretty small when I joined, so I knew everyone at least by sight. But I say 'Howard,' because his son Tony is the 'Stark' we think of today."

Steve smiled to think of Howard having a son. Then he frowned. "Is Howard still alive?"

Leslie sighed. She couldn't avoid a direct question. "Howard and his wife were killed in a car accident years ago," she said. "Please don't ask me about anyone else. I promise I will tell you everything. I'll look up everyone you're curious about," Leslie said. "But not right now. My assignment is to get you acclimated to today's society and technology. We will get to history, but first we need to deal with practicalities — communication, navigation, provisions."

Steve smiled at her attempt to phrase things in military style. He saluted. "All right, Quartermaster Reynolds. Let's proceed."

Leslie patted his arm. (It was becoming a habit. It was a nicely muscular arm. Hey, she might be 60, but she's not dead!) "Let's start with the landline," she said.

"I don't know that word, but it's that phone, right?" he pointed at the one that Leslie had plugged into the wall.

"Yes. When cellphones became common, we needed a word for the old-fashioned phones that use wires and phone lines. In some ways, these are more secure than the cellphones, which send signals through the air like radios."

"So they can be intercepted." Steve was quick, and he thought like a military man.

"Yes. There's complicated math to keep the signals encrypted, but there are crooks dedicated to deciphering signals to steal information."

"It's like being at war," Steve said.

"The war on crime has always been around," Leslie said, getting a nod from the man who had lived through the criminal times of Prohibition and the Great Depression.

Leslie showed Steve how the landline worked. It had buttons instead of a dial, but the basic calling procedure was familiar. "You need to know the phone number you want," Leslie said. "There aren't a lot of telephone operators any more. And there are lots more phones, so numbers are longer than they used to be. We added an extra three digits called area codes back when I was in school."

When Steve was comfortable with the landline, Leslie opened her suitcase and pulled out the SHIELD smartphone that had been issued to Steve. It looked a lot like the one Melody Harris had used to distract Steve with pictures of her cats.

He took his new phone gingerly. "So that device Melody had with all the pictures — that's actually a telephone?"

"A cellphone," Leslie agreed. "Because there are relay towers all over the city — all over the world, really — and the zone around each tower is the 'cell.' There are simple cellphones that just make phone calls. Melody's phone and this one are called smartphones, because they do so many things. Drat," Leslie said crossly. "I'm going to have to explain about computers." Honestly, they were never going to get groceries at this rate!

"Computers are people who perform complicated math," Steve said.

"Right. In your day, computer was a job title. Today it generally refers to a machine that does that job."

"Huh, that sounds like what Alan Turing was working on during the war," Steve said, mostly to himself.

"You knew Alan Turing?"

"He was a friend of Peggy's. She took me to visit Bletchley Park a few times when we were in England. Peggy knew a lot of scientists," Steve explained.

"It was the Strategic Scientific Reserve, after all," Leslie agreed.

"It was all way over my head, but it sounded brilliant," Steve said. "Turing never got the support he was due because …" Steve hesitated.

"Because he was homosexual," Leslie said frankly. "It's not a secret these days. And it's not illegal any more, at least in this country. It's all ancient history, Steve."

"Is that what I am, ancient history?" Steve said sadly.

"No, you're covered in the modern history courses," Leslie said, trying to jolly Steve out of his sadness. "Of course, a lot of it is probably wrong," she added, deciding to take a risk. "Some of them suggest that you might have been homosexual."

Leslie wasn't sure what Steve's reaction would be. She didn't expect him to snort and say, "I used to get that a lot. They probably think Bucky and I were lovers, too."

"I've seen that theory," Leslie answered cautiously.

Steve chuckled at her surprise. "I was a little guy who liked art. Lots of people assumed I was 'a faggot.'" The way he said it was obviously a quote. Leslie explained the preferred polite term these days was "gay."

Steve nodded, committing the term to memory, though to him the word meant "happy." "I didn't mind if a guy made a pass and took no for an answer. Didn't like anyone who pressed too far, whether he was trying to make time with a man or a woman. I felt bad for Bucky, though, when people assumed we were together. Cost him a couple of jobs."

"Well, today it's not illegal. And discrimination against people based on their lifestyle is supposed to be illegal."

Steve caught the "supposed to." "There are always bullies, aren't there?"

"That's true," Leslie agreed, then she sighed. "It's so difficult to stay on topic with you, when there are so many topics to cover. Let's get back to computers. Computers started out as room-sized machines that used vacuum tubes as switches. When scientists found alternatives to vacuum tubes, the machines became smaller and smaller. Today, they're small enough to fit in your pocket." She tapped Steve's cellphone.

She showed him how to unlock the phone, put in a code and a thumbprint.

"What are all the little pictures?" Steve asked. "Is this the one to make a phone call?"

He touched the phone receiver icon, which opened the phone app. Steve yanked his finger away apologetically.

"That's exactly what it is," Leslie praised. "And that's exactly how you open it. The pictures are called icons. Each one opens an application, which is shortened to app most of the time."

She went through the basics of making a call and entering a number into the contacts. He successfully put her number and Maria Hill's in the contacts. Then he tried calling Leslie several times, by entering the phone number and by touching her name under contacts.

"The phone has GPS. I will explain how it works another time," Leslie said. "What it means is you can find exactly where you are at any time. She showed him how to use the maps and how to get directions.

"I don't forget very much any more," Steve said, modestly describing his eidetic memory. "I probably won't get lost."

"This is just in case," Leslie assured him. "Also, you can find places you haven't been — like the nearest grocery store — and get directions to it. One thing you should know, when the GPS is on, SHIELD can find you at any time. They have this phone number on file. That can be useful if you, say, find too many bullies to handle and need to call for help. But if you want privacy …"

"I understand," Steve said solemnly, but he had no reason to hide from SHIELD. "What else can a smartphone do?"

Leslie didn't want to get into email and Web browsers right now. That was a whole day's worth of discussion and a whole battlefield full of potential landmines. Instead, she showed Steve the games she had put on his phone. There was a jigsaw puzzle, a word game and a drawing program.

She had loaded a couple of her favorite classic books: Jules Verne's "Mysterious Island," Agatha Christie's "Mysterious Affair at Styles" and Edgar Rice Burroughs' not so mysterious "Tarzan of the Apes" and "Return of Tarzan" (because the first book is "to be continued"). All of those were books that Leslie liked and were old enough that Steve might have read them in his childhood. She added "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" just because.

At the last minute, she'd added "Fer de Lance" by Rex Stout. She thought Rex Stout's "Nero Wolfe" books would be good. The mystery series started before World War II and continued through the 1970s. Steve could learn a lot about attitudes (and fashion!) by reading the books chronologically.

When she found out what kind of stories Steve liked, she'd help him download more.

Steve was amazed to find music on the phone, as well. Leslie had mostly stuck with swing era classics, but she'd added a little Beach Boys and some Elvis, to move him toward the 60s.

"We can put movies on, too, but I didn't have time," Leslie apologized.

"Movies, too? This is amazing," Steve said honestly. He turned the slender rectangle around, impressed that all that could fit in something so small.

"Is this the camera lens?" he asked.

"Smart boy," Leslie praised.

Steve found the camera icon by himself and snapped a picture of Leslie, who posed in a campy pinup girl style — which looked really funny on a pudgy 60ish woman in slacks and a blazer.

Then Leslie showed him how to text the photo to her. When the picture popped up on Leslie's phone, Steve grinned.

"Bucky would love this," he enthused.

His grin faltered, when he remembered Bucky was dead.

Steve fought to keep from crying. He had always tried to be brave — for his mother, for Bucky, for Peggy, for the Commandos. But then he realized all of them were dead. There was no one left to be brave for,

His expression crumpled like a discarded paper bag. Tears began to run down his cheeks. "Bucky said we were going to the future. Now I'm here without him."

Leslie pulled him to her shoulder as he began to cry in wracking, gulping sobs.

"He's gone," Steve wailed. "They're all gone. I'll never see any of them again."

* * *

 _A/N: Banking was different in my younger days. Up until the 1980s, you could not cash an out-of-state check. My mother and sister were stranded in an airport because of a flight delay. They'd used up their cash and traveler's checks and had to persuade a cashier to cash an out-of-state check in order for them to buy any food. There were no ATMs then, no debit cards and even credit cards were not universally used. This was 1972._


	4. Financial Matters

**Financial Matters**

Leslie held Steve and let him cry himself out, not caring about the tears and the snot on her blazer shoulder. Without letting go, she leaned to the right and fished in her bag with one hand, pulling out the box of Kleenex. Fortunately it was already open. When Steve finally pulled away, she handed him a wad.

"Disposable tissues," she explained.

He wiped his eyes and then blew his nose a couple of times.

"Sorry," he said, abashed.

"You don't have to apologize to me," Leslie said, wiping sympathetic tears from her eyes. "You've lost so much, you deserve a good cry. And research says it's good for you. Removes bad chemicals in the body. Explains why women are so much more stable than men." She gave him a nudge with her elbow, which got a weak chuckle in return.

"I mean, I'm sorry for ..." he gestured at her damp shoulder.

Leslie regarded it, then shrugged. "I'll wipe it off with a wet cloth. I'll get one for your face, too," she said.

She went to the bathroom and used a wet washcloth to wipe her face, then scrub off her shoulder. She hung up the jacket on a hook to dry, thought a moment, then looked in her bag for a T-shirt that didn't have some pop culture reference she'd have to explain. She definitely couldn't wear her Los Angeles Dodgers tee! She settled for a bright pink shirt that read: "A day without reading probably won't kill me, but why risk it?" She also picked out a blue polo shirt for Steve. He couldn't go around in an SSR T-shirt. Someone might ask what it meant.

She just hoped the wardrobe people had gotten a shirt big enough for his shoulders. Heaven knew, they'd had plenty of time to measure him before he regained consciousness. Of course, these were the same people who put him to bed with boots on!

* * *

When she was dressed in her casual clothes, Leslie took a damp cloth out to Steve, so he could wipe his face. She couldn't help but stare. His red eyes and nose were clearing up as she watched, like a blush in reverse.

"What?" he asked defensively.

Leslie shook away her paralysis. "Sorry, I'm seeing your super healing in action. You don't look like you've been crying at all."

"People think I don't feel it, because I don't look like I feel it," he said glumly.

Leslie sat beside him and patted his knee. "I will try to remember. And you try to tell me what you're feeling, OK?"

She spit on her palm and held it out. Steve chuckled at the old timey gesture to seal a deal. He spit on his palm and they shook hands firmly.

Steve got another chuckle out of Leslie's T-shirt and pulled on the polo shirt she offered without comment. It still looked a little tight, but, to be honest, tight was a good look on him.

"So, we're going shopping. We're going to get food, right?" he asked.

His stomach growled at the mention.

"I'd guess we'd better before that lion gets loose," Leslie joked.

She got a man's wallet out of her suitcase. It held a few dollars, Steve's SHIELD-made ID (which was accurate except for the year of birth) and two plastic cards.

"This is a credit card. This is a debit card," she instructed.

Steve nodded. The two cards were different colors and the debit card was identified with those words on the front.

"You can use either of these to make purchases most places except, say, little hotdog carts and newsstands. When you use a debit card, the money comes straight out of your bank account. The credit card draws on a line of credit and you pay the bill later. So, if you wanted to buy something that you didn't have the cash for, but you knew you'd have enough come payday, you would use the credit card and that postpones payment to the end of the month or whatever date the credit card company uses. In the case of this card, it is the end of the month."

"Buying on credit can be dangerous," Steve said. Anyone growing up in the Great Depression knew that and probably had a distrust of banks, too.

"Yes, and people do get in trouble getting in more debt than they can handle. If you don't pay off the credit card bill each month, you will be charged interest on the balance. If you do pay the full balance each month, there's no financial difference between the credit and debit cards. There is a practical difference. When you use the credit card, you usually have to sign your name for identification. When you use the debit card, there's a PIN number — a personal identification number — that you enter on the keypad. I'll show you how it all works when we go shopping," she promised. "I set your PIN as 0718 for July 1918. It's not really smart to use an easily guessed number such as your birthdate, but I wanted something you could remember. I'll show you how to change your PIN later. Anyway, your birthday on your ID is 1981, not 18. Are you ready to head out?"

"Sir, yes, sir," Steve snapped, giving a salute.

Leslie saluted in return, then they collected jackets (not the wet one) and (finally) left the building.

On the way out, Leslie showed Steve how the security locks worked and had him record a voiceprint. "I feel like I'm in a Flash Gordon serial," he said dryly. That made Leslie chuckle. The lock didn't care.

* * *

As they walked to the elevator, Leslie added, "One more thing, don't freak out about the prices."

"Freak out?" Steve asked, though he could guess from the context what she meant.

Leslie wracked her brain for an older synonym. "Uh, flip your lid? Blow a gasket? Fly off the handle?"

Steve nodded. "I understand."

"Prices are much higher than they were in your day," Leslie said. "Prices and wages have gone up steadily since the 1940s."

That was an oversimplification, but Leslie was no economist.

"I didn't want you to think someone was trying to cheat you, if you saw a $4 cup of coffee," Leslie said.

"Four dollars?" Steve choked.

"And that's exactly what I meant," Leslie said. "You can say 'I can't believe this costs so much,' because everyone says that. But don't hyperventilate or make a scene, OK? I'm supposed to keep you under the radar for now."

"I understand. I don't want to get you in trouble," Steve said. She was the only friend he had right now.

* * *

The concierge tried and failed to hide his smirk when the mismatched pair left the elevator. The tall, handsome blond man and the short pudgy woman made an amusing sight.

"What are you grinning at, Carlos," Leslie said with mock aggression.

Feeling Steve bristle beside her, Leslie patted his arm. "It's OK. I've known Carlos since he was a baby agent who couldn't figure out how to file his reports."

"Aunt Leslie teaches all the new agents how to fill out and file reports," Carlos said.

"Some people need more help than others," Leslie said, giving Carlos a quelling look.

"Aunt Leslie?" Steve asked.

"All the young agents call her Aunt Leslie," Carlos said. "You should call her Aunt Leslie."

"Um."

"No, I mean it," Carlos said seriously. "You don't look like you belong together, unless she's a relative."

"He has a point," Leslie admitted to Steve. She looked him up and down. "You are such a handsome specimen and I'm pretty ordinary. Obviously my sister married very well."

"Dad always said Ma married him for his looks and he married her for her cooking," Steve joked, getting into the spirit.

"There you go," approved the agent who masqueraded as a concierge.

* * *

Finally — finally! — the two of them set forth on their foraging expedition. It really wasn't as late as Leslie expected. They'd be able to get to the ATM and still get to the diner by 5 o'clock.

The building was a quiet haven for stressed SHIELD agents and assets. Stepping onto the busy New York street was like being hit by a thunderstorm. Steve flinched.

"Too loud?" Leslie asked, realizing his super senses might be a problem.

"Not as loud as artillery," Steve replied. "Just give me a minute."

He compartmentalized the noise, the brightness and the smells and mentally set them aside. He'd had to learn that in self-defense when he first changed. Leslie offered him a pair of sunglasses from her capacious purse. He donned them gratefully.

"OK, where to?" he asked.

They walked two blocks to a bank and Leslie introduced him to the ATM.

"That means Automated Teller Machine," she said. "With this, you can get cash even when the bank is closed. You need to be careful no shady people are spying on you to find out your PIN or steal your cash." She reconsidered. "Well, I need to be careful. Anyone who attacks you will be sorry."

She pointed out the security features — the cameras recording transactions and the guard lingering within view. She wondered what the guard thought about her teaching a grown man how to use an ATM. Did he think Steve had grown up in a cult? Probably he just thought she was an officious busybody giving Steve advice he didn't need. She tried to look very bossy, while she showed Steve how to insert the debit card, where to enter his PIN and where the money came out. The instructions on the ATM screen were self-explanatory, really, once you understood the basic concept.

Steve would have pushed the button for $40, but Leslie directed him to the $200.

"Two hundred?" he asked doubtfully.

"I told you about the prices," she reminded him. "We'll spend at least half that much on dinner tonight. And we're going to a diner. Nothing fancy. I expect you to eat a lot and, I just realized, I haven't had lunch, so I'm starving."

Her stomach growled in agreement.

"Better feed your lioness," Steve teased.

Two blocks down and one block over, they reached the Five and Diner. Steve appreciated the pun.

"Look, we're in time for the early bird special. That will be handy for someone with a super appetite," Leslie chuckled, as they slid into a red leather booth. "They also offer a discount to people age 65 and older. I don't qualify, but you do," she said playfully.

Steve looked down his nose and said snootily, "Madam, I'll have you know I was born in 1981. My birth certificate says so."

They both laughed as if it was the funniest thing.

* * *

 _A/N: Chris Evans was born in 1981.  
Guiding Steve around the city where I'll have problems. I spent a grand total of one day in New York City 36 years ago. There are many things I do not know. For instance, do restaurants serve glasses of water automatically? You have to ask for it in Southern California. Because of our recurring droughts, we don't like to waste water, not just the unwanted water in the glass, but the water it takes to wash unused glasses, too._

 _My prayers are with all the people impacted by the hurricanes._


	5. Dining Out

**Dining Out**

A waitress delivered two glasses of water and two menus to their booth. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.

"I'll have an ice tea, no lemon," Leslie said. "Do you want a beer, Steve? I see Budweiser on the shelf."

She nodded at the display of beer bottles, knowing the Budweiser brand was older than Steve.

"Sounds good," Steve agreed.

"I'll be right back with your drinks," the girl promised and flitted away.

Steve studied the menu, fighting down his shock at the prices. He had been warned. "I'm losing my appetite because of the prices," he muttered.

"This is modest," Leslie assured him. "Suck it up, soldier."

Steve debated internally. Protein and carbs both pulled at him. He confessed to Leslie he couldn't decide between the fettuccine Alfredo and the steak.

"Have both," Leslie instructed him. "You need the calories."

"But …"

"And the cost doesn't matter," Leslie said firmly.

"Yes, Aunt Leslie," he said humbly, as the waitress arrived with their drinks and a basket of sourdough bread.

"I'll have the 6-ounce rib-eye and my nephew will have the fettuccine and the 12-ounce steak," Leslie said firmly.

"That's a lot," the girl warned, even as she wrote it down.

"If we have leftovers we'll take them home," Leslie said. "But he's an exercise maniac. He needs fattening up."

"No, he doesn't," the waitress said, smiling at Steve with admiration and making him blush. "What sides would you like?"

"Um," Steve scanned the menu frantically.

"I want the loaded baked potato, no chives," Leslie said, to give Steve a minute. "And the garden salad."

"You get two sides with the steak and one with the fettuccine," the waitress prompted Steve.

"Um, I'll have the same as Aunt Leslie for the steak and …"

"How about the broccoli, or the asparagus," Leslie suggested.

"The steamed broccoli," Steve decided, when he finally found the section listed "sides."

"You've got it," the waitress said with a smile for both of them.

"Not used to picking side dishes?" Leslie asked.

Steve shook his head. "No, if you picked meatloaf, you got mashed potatoes. If you got pot roast, it came with potatoes and carrots and maybe green beans on the side. It was all one meal, no substitutions."

"Now you get more choice," Leslie said. "And even if a dish says it comes with fries — French fried potatoes — you can still ask for a substitute."

"Why would I want to substitute? I love potatoes. I am Irish!"

* * *

"You know all about me. Tell me about yourself," Steve said when the waitress was out of earshot.

"I want to start by saying that I know things that I'm sure you will want to know, but I'm not at liberty to tell you yet. I'm a secret keeper, that's part of my job." Steve wouldn't recognize that as a pop culture reference, but the meaning was still plain.

"Need to know." He nodded.

"Some of this, I think you need to know," she said honestly. "But I have orders, and I think some of the information would be too much, too soon."

"I trust you," he said simply.

He'd known her for four hours! She was touched, but exasperated. And she was very, very glad she'd bulled her way into this assignment. She wouldn't have trusted anyone else with Steve.

"OK," was all she said. "I'm from California and am still a Californian at heart, despite spending 35 years in New York. I've been with SHIELD longer than anyone else, longer than Fury. After I graduated from college, I had a hard time finding a job. The economy wasn't great. So I joined the army and trained as a records specialist — aka a file clerk. I didn't really like all the army BS, so I didn't re-up. As my enlistment neared its end, my captain told me about a small government security force called SHIELD. He'd worked with them on an op and made friends with one of the higher ups. I went to New York for an interview with his recommendation."

Boy, she wished she could tell him that Peggy Carter personally hired her. Eventually she would, she promised herself.

"SHIELD was really small then, focused on the strange, science-related cases that the SSR had handled. I was Number 2 out of two in the records department. When my superior left to become a field agent, I moved up to Number 1 — of one. But soon I had a staff of two and we kept growing, moved into the computer age eventually, but I still have all my filing cabinets. All the really secret stuff is on paper hidden among 60 years of files."

"So you work for Fury?"

Leslie nodded. "Fury and his top agents, Maria Hill and Phil Coulson. They're the only ones who really understand my value. The other senior agents just send their files over the computer. They don't appreciate the privacy of paper — or they do and don't trust me with it," she added thoughtfully. "I also handle things for a few of Fury's specialists, the ones who didn't follow a traditional path to SHIELD."

"What's a traditional path?"

"Serving in the military or the police, maybe the FBI, then transferring to SHIELD."

"What's a non-traditional path?" Steve asked.

"Growing up in a circus and defecting from the KGB, to name two," she answered with a smile.

"Circus, really?"

"Really. He has amazing weapons skills and acrobatics. He could literally shoot a bull's-eye from the back of a galloping horse, and did it at every show. But he had very little formal schooling, so I gave him personal coaching on spelling and filling out reports."

Leslie was one of the few who knew about Clint Barton's secret family. Records had to be kept in order for pay to be distributed, but these records were never in the computer. They were listed under Laura's maiden name in a deliberately dusty filing cabinet in the middle of personnel records of agents long past.

"And a KGB defector?" Steve asked.

"The Soviets had … well, they called it the Machine when talking about Olympic athletes. They would take children who showed promise at gymnastics or ice skating or swimming and take them from their families to train them all their lives to compete. The Soviets had a more secret program for spies, taking little girls and training them to seduce and spy and kill."

"That's terrible," Steve said.

"Yes, but when she grew up Natasha escaped and was offered a chance to defect to SHIELD." Leslie didn't hesitate to use Natasha's name because her story was well known in SHIELD. "She was very good with her reports, but only knew how to fake a normal life. Her only friend was the field agent who turned her and his handler, but they were out in the field, so I offered to show her around."

"Like you're showing me around," Steve said.

"Yes, so you see, I have experience at this," Leslie teased. "I volunteered because everyone was afraid of her. She had such a reputation. She was surprised that I wasn't. I told her I was, but pointed out if she wanted to escape, she didn't even have to disable me to do it, because I was over 50 with arthritic knees. She could run circles around me and laugh. I didn't see any upside in her hurting me. And she never did."

"So you're friends with these agents?"

Leslie shrugged. "We don't hang out together all the time. I'm 40 years older than Natasha. We're just work friends. She drops by my office once in awhile with a cup of tea and Russian teacakes. I give the class to new agents about writing reports and filing them, so I meet just about every agent when they start and a lot of them ply me with baked goods when they need help with paperwork or advice on how normal people would react in a situation. Some of them need old records for current cases and a lot try to get gossip about Fury's baby agent days, but I only tell the two stories that Fury's given me permission to tell."

"Secret keeper," Steve said with a smile.

* * *

The conversation lagged when the food arrived, salads first, then the main courses.

Steve tucked in with a will, eating neatly and politely, but quickly. His eyes closed in pleasure when he savored the first bite of pasta.

"That's so good. I haven't had anything that good since we left Italy," he said.

Leslie realized Steve had been living on Army rations for most of the last two years, from his point of view.

Steve switched plates. "The steak is excellent, too."

With her mouth full, Leslie agreed, "mmm," then she swallowed and said, "The owner was a chef at a top restaurant, but he wanted his own place." She sighed regretfully. "It will get really crowded here when it's 'discovered,' but for now we benefit."

"How'd you find it?"

"An agent named Sitwell. He follows the food scene. Always tells Maria about the best places and she tells me."

They talked mostly about food while they ate. Steve liked Irish stew and meatloaf and chicken soup. Leslie liked steak and salmon and roasted chicken.

"We couldn't afford young, tender chickens," Steve said. "We had older birds and tougher cuts of meat for stew and soup. We boiled everything."

"Stewing and boiling aren't the same thing," Leslie pointed out.

"Hm, maybe that's why my cooking was never as good as my Ma's," Steve said. There was a twinkle in his eye that might have meant he was teasing, but Leslie couldn't be sure.

* * *

When the waitress brought the check to the table, she offered to-go boxes.

"Ill take one, but I don't think Steve will need one," she said.

The Super Soldier had two bites of pasta left on his plate and was twirling his fork in one of them.

"You were hungry!" the girl said with a smile.

"I was," Steve agreed. He handed her his credit card as if he'd grown up using them.

"He's been overseas. Hasn't had a good meal in ages," Leslie said.

"Thank you for your service," the waitress said, as she walked away.

The waitress must have told the owner about the big eater, because he brought back the credit card himself.

Steve stood to shake his hand. "I first had fettuccine Alfredo in a small place in Italy. This is just as good as I remembered."

The chef thanked him for the compliments and for his service. "How long have you been back?"

"Just got in today," Steve said.

"So I had to bring him straight here," Leslie put in.

"I'm honored," the chef said. The waitress came with a container that had a full helping of fettuccine. "Please take some fettuccine with you, as my thanks for your service."

Steve didn't want to take advantage, but Leslie accepted on his behalf. "My nephew is modest, but I have no shame," she said. "And he eats like a horse, so this will be handy later."

* * *

As they left the restaurant, with Steve carrying a bag with both sets of leftovers, they passed through the bar area, which had gotten much livelier in the hour they'd been in the dining room.

The big screen TV was showing a baseball game. Steve's eye was caught by the bright colors and familiar sports action.

He stopped dead. "What's that?" he asked loudly.

* * *

 _A/N: This is as special as Leslie is going to get. She knows Natasha and Clint, because Fury wanted them to have special handling. She must know Melinda May, since May seems to be working in some sort of clerical function at this time period. They don't hang out all the time, but they might chat in the lunchroom or ask her advice about how normal people live. Natasha might make an appearance in this story before she heads off to her mission in Russia. She wants to, and she's hard to say no to. Clint and Phil are in New Mexico, so not them.  
Apart from Leslie's military specialty, her life story is semibiographical. I didn't get the job in New York and came home to California where I did get a job and I've worked for that company for more than 30 years.  
Work has been stressful this week, so I don't have the next chapter written yet. I'll try, but it may be 2 weeks before the next post. Don't get anxious. There's more to come. And I haven't forgotten Reconstruction, either. RL just gets in the way sometimes._


	6. Super Soldier and Supermarket

**Super Soldier and Supermarket**

Leslie winced at the loudness of Steve's exclamation. Fortunately, everyone within earshot had his attention fixed on the enormous flat screen TV where a spectacular double play was in progress.

"Yankees vs. Red Sox," one customer answered. Leslie could only thank heavens it was two old-time teams. The man half turned to eye Steve suspiciously. You're not a Red Sox fan, are you?"

"Never," Steve answered fervently.

The man nodded satisfaction and turned back to his beer and the game. Leslie touched Steve's arm. He started, then sheepishly followed Leslie out of the restaurant.

Steve was still dazzled by the bright, colorful screen — something new showing baseball, which was something familiar.

"What was that?" he asked breathlessly, when no one was close.

"That was a big screen television set," Leslie answered. "TV for short."

Steve frowned. "I've heard that before. They had a display at the World's Fair, but they were round and small and the picture was fuzzy and gray."

"They've progressed a lot," Leslie admitted. "I remember when TV was just black and white and how excited we were when a friend got the first color TV in the neighborhood."

"And you can watch baseball on them?"

"Sports, news, movies and TV series — like radio with pictures," Leslie confirmed. "One of the first broadcasts was a Dodger game before the war."

"Yeah, I remember. The RCA dealer put a 'TV' in the window so everyone could see, but he didn't let riffraff like Buck and me linger for long. He knew we couldn't buy one. We stood at the back of the crowd. We could hear Red Barber, but I couldn't see over people's heads, so we went home and listened on the radio. Now I'll be able to watch the Dodgers on TV?"

He was enthused. Leslie delayed telling him that the Dodgers had moved out of Brooklyn.

"You can watch the Dodgers on TV, but not today, because they're on their way to Philadelphia. And because we haven't put the TV equipment together, yet."

"You know the Dodger schedule?"

"They're my team," Leslie said simply.

Steve nudged her shoulder. "I knew I liked you for a reason," he joked.

Leslie nudged him back. "So, the plan is to drop off our leftovers at your building. Then go grocery shopping. Tonight we can put together the electronics, giving us tomorrow to finish up if we get stuck. Tomorrow we cook — I've got to show you how to use modern appliances — and play with electronics and talk baseball. Tomorrow night we watch the Dodger game."

"At night?"

"Stadiums have lights these days. Night games are more convenient for working stiffs."

Leslie had rattled off her schedule off the top of her head, but wasn't a bad plan, she thought. A lesson in electronics will segue into baseball, which can be used as an illustration of civil rights and the post-war westward migration.

She just hoped the Dodgers would win tomorrow. Of course, she always hoped that.

* * *

Steve had been walking between Leslie and the street as a gentleman ought to when he suddenly paused, swung behind her and took up position between her and the buildings. His sudden vigilance made Leslie nervous.

"What?" she asked quietly.

"That man's talking to himself," he answered just as quietly.

She followed the direction of his gaze and saw a scruffy looking man talking to himself, but he wasn't muttering aimlessly.

"It's OK," Leslie informed Steve. "Can you see the device in his ear? It connects to his cellphone."

"So he's talking on his phone?" Steve asked. He'd seen people holding little squares to their ears and understood they were on the phone, but this man was just talking.

"Yes, he's making a call," Leslie confirmed. "But don't lose your vigilance. We do see mentally ill persons talking to themselves on the street. Just like the old days. Most of them are harmless, but some can be dangerous."

Steve nodded.

* * *

They had to walk past Steve's building to get to the supermarket, which allowed them to drop their leftovers with Carlos. Steve studied the streets as they walked. "Isn't that a market?" he asked, pointing to a small bodega on the opposite corner.

"Yes, it is," Leslie agreed. "There are many little markets, delis and mom-and-pop stores in New York, and you may patronize them if you prefer. It's nice to support the local owners and not just the big corporations. And some of the small places carry specialty items that you can't find in the big stores. On the other hand, they don't have the selection of the supermarkets and prices in the big stores may be lower, because they can buy in bulk. You can make those decisions for yourself. My brief is to acclimate you to 2012, so I am going to introduce you to the supermarket." Which actually was starting small, she thought. She could have begun with Wal-Mart or Costco.

Steve eyed the expansive storefront with trepidation. "It looks huge," he said.

"Compared to what you're used to, it is," Leslie admitted. "We're diving in the deep end, full immersion," she teased.

"I've done full immersion. Can't say I liked it," the formerly frozen soldier replied.

If he could joke, so could she. "I promise we won't linger in the frozen section."

When they reached the supermarket door, Leslie said, teasing, "OK, here we go. Try not to gawk like a country cousin."

Steve started forward to get the door for her and the door opened by itself! He started to shy away, but Leslie grabbed his arm firmly. "There's a lever, under the doormat."

Steve controlled his nervous start, looked up and would have halted in the middle of the doorway if Leslie hadn't been determinedly towing him onward. The sunglasses concealed Steve's expression, but Leslie saw his cheeks flex and knew his eyes were wide.

"It's enormous," he said quietly, following her passively.

"It's average for a supermarket," Leslie answered. "There are bigger stores. They call them warehouse stores, so you can guess how big they are."

"Wow."

Leslie looked around the store in contemplation, then steered Steve to produce.

"I think we need to try a few things to see what you like," she decided.

"I'm not picky," Steve told her.

"No, living through the Depression and then rationing and war rations, I don't suppose you are," Leslie agreed. "But today there are preservatives and additives that might not be to your taste."

"Preservatives are good," Steve said. "Food goes bad so fast and I hate to waste it."

Leslie smiled. "People are anti-preservative these days. They want 'natural' foods, though natural doesn't have a legal definition."

"Fresh fruits and vegetables are great, but we didn't live on a farm," Steve said. "We had fresh in the summer when fruits and vegetables were in season. Ma canned a lot during the summer so we could have vegetables the rest of the year. We had preserved meats and pickled vegetables. We bought canned fruits and vegetables, too, especially the dented cans that the grocer would give us a discount on. We had to look for things that would keep."

"Today we have refrigeration," Leslie said. "We can keep fresh food longer. When you have a choice, you might as well get what tastes best. That's what we want to find out — what tastes best to you."

When they reached the produce aisle, Steve stared at the massive quantities. "Ma would have loved this," he said quietly.

He looked a little sad, but he'd had years to come to terms with his mother's passing. It wasn't a fresh wound like Bucky's death.

"What looks familiar?" Leslie asked.

Steve immediately went to the root vegetables — potatoes ("You did say you were Irish," Leslie joked.), carrots, turnips, onions and parsnips.

"I don't care for parsnips myself, but we can fix whatever you like," Leslie said.

"I didn't know carrots came in so many colors," Steve said, pointing at the bunch of orange, yellow and purple carrots.

"It's only the last few years we've been seeing those in grocery stores," Leslie said. "Different colors mean they have slightly different nutrients. That's true for all vegetables, by the way. If you eat lots of different colors, you get different nutrients."

"Are they different flavors?" Steve asked.

"I don't know. My guess would be yes," she said. "Get a bunch and we'll experiment, but get a big bunch of orange ones, too, because I want to make pot roast."

Steve also plucked out a large head of cabbage. Leslie eyed it with deep suspicion.

"I'm not a fan of cooked cabbage. How do you feel about coleslaw — cold cabbage salad?"

"My ma made coleslaw. She canned cabbage with vinegar and pickling spices," Steve said.

"We'll see if you like my recipe. It's mayonnaise based." She looked at the root vegetables in the cart. "How'd your mother fix these?"

"Boiled," Steve answered. He pointed out the potatoes, the cabbage, the turnips, the carrots and the parsnips … "Boiled, boiled, boiled, boiled and boiled."

"Well, you did say you boiled everything," Leslie admitted.

"After boiling, sometimes she mashed the potatoes and turnips," Steve offered, not wanting her to think his mother was a slacker.

Something else caught Steve's eye. "Ooh, peas!"

Leslie handed him a bag so he could shovel in handfuls of green pods. She sighed. "I've never shelled fresh peas," she admitted. "My mom hated that job and as soon as Birdseye invented frozen vegetables, she was all over it."

"Birdseye? Frozen?" Steve asked.

"I'll show you when we get to that aisle," Leslie promised. "Now, pick out something you've never had before or something you didn't have often."

Steve set off like a man on a mission and returned with a branch studded with brussels sprouts and bag of bright oranges.

"Oranges were a special treat," Steve said.

He had picked up a few, but Leslie told him to get the big bag, which made him grin like a kid.

"And this looked interesting," Steve added, holding up the branch. "They look like little cabbages."

"They are related," Leslie answered and told him what they were called.

While he was collecting his treasures, Leslie had picked up three of the ugliest items in the produce section: a brown root vegetable, a fuzzy brown egg-shaped thing (fruit?) and a pear-shaped thing with black pebbly skin.

"Are those good?" he asked doubtfully.

"I like them," Leslie answered. "This is jicama. It's a root like turnips. Peel off the brown and it's white and crisp inside. I like it sliced in salads. This is a kiwi fruit. I think it's actually a berry. It came to the U.S. from New Zealand and got its name, I suppose, because it's brown and fuzzy like the kiwi bird. Inside it's green with tiny black seeds." She touched the black pear thing. "This is an avocado, sometimes called an alligator pear. It's the state fruit of California, though you eat it more like a vegetable. You find it in salads and Mexican food and just about anything called 'California style.'"

"Mexican food?" Steve was interested. "Never had it."

"It was mostly found in the West and Southwest, where we had lots of Mexican influence," Leslie said. "It took awhile to migrate East. Even in the 1980s, I had a hard time finding decent Mexican food in New York. Now the U.S. is a true melting pot. You can find most cuisines wherever you go, particularly in New York."

They had almost filled a cart with produce, so Leslie had Steve grab another one. While he was doing that, she picked out apples and bananas, then several vine-ripened tomatoes from two different displays.

"Aren't those the same?" Steve asked about the tomatoes.

"One is regular, one is organic, which is supposed to mean it's grown without chemicals. I want to see if you can tell the difference," Leslie said.

As they moved toward the meat and dairy department, Leslie talked about "organic" and "natural" and how some definitions were legal and some weren't. She also pointed out the packaged precut vegetables and bags of lettuce and cabbage. "That's what I usually buy when I want to make coleslaw. I prefer to spend a little more and save the chopping time. But right now I have a Super Soldier chopping machine to do the work for me."

Steve chuckled. "Onions don't bother me much anymore," he volunteered.

"You are a treasure!" Leslie said.

* * *

 _A/N: Six chapters and Steve hasn't even spent one full day in the 21_ _st_ _century!_

 _And just as I finished editing this, the Dodgers won the Western Division!_


	7. Foraging Forward

**Foraging Forward**

They went through the bakery/bread section. Leslie picked out a packaged loaf of a brand name sliced bread, a fresh baked loaf of crusty French bread, an artisan loaf of rosemary-olive oil bread and a package of King's Hawaiian rolls (because they were her favorites).

She led Steve among the baked goods and told him to pick something that looked good. Steve's eyes lingered on a loaf of chocolate pound cake, but then he spotted a box of orange scones. He got the bittersweet expression on his face that Leslie associated with good memories of his lost past. She guessed that scones reminded him of Englishwoman Peggy Carter.

Steve put the box in the cart and Leslie added the pound cake. "I said, anything you want," she reminded her friend. "And I love chocolate."

Packaged meats and cheeses were on one side of the bakery display tables and the deli on the other next to the bakery itself. While Leslie foraged among the packages, Steve went confidently to the deli and ordered a half-pound of sliced roast beef and an equal amount of mortadella.

"Better make it a pound each," Leslie told the deli man.

"Bucky worked the slicer at the deli until Mr. Goldberg's kids got big enough to do it — and Bucky got big enough to get a better-paying job at the docks," Steve said nostalgically. "We ate pretty good in those days. We got all the end pieces and the cheese rinds, which all had good salable meat or cheese on them. Mr. Goldberg was no cheapskate."

Steve studied the items Leslie had collected and smiled at the Nathan's Famous hotdogs. "If you're going to get those, then we need buns," he said authoritatively. He went back to the bread section and got the hotdog buns he'd noticed — King's Hawaiian, because he'd noticed Leslie's preference, too.

Leslie was glad to see him taking ownership of the shopping, even if it was just deli meat and hotdog buns.

With one full shopping cart, they finally reached the meat department at the back of the store. "I want to show you different ways to use the kitchen, so I plan to fix a beef stew and roast a chicken," Leslie said. She contemplated the choices in the butcher's case. "The salmon looks good. I can bake salmon in the oven." She sighed. "Which means I should have gotten a couple of lemons in produce. I always forget something," she confided. "I get half my exercise going back for things I forgot."

Then she gestured at the meat, "Anything look interesting?"

Steve pointed at the pork ribs. "Ooh, good choice," Leslie agreed.

"When I was on tour, we had barbecue several times at different stops in the Midwest and the South. The girls knew where the best places were," Steve said. "The brisket was great, but the pork ribs were my favorite."

"Vinegar sauce or tomato based?" Leslie asked.

"Uh, my favorite was dark red and kind sweet."

"We'll look at the jars in the condiments section," Leslie said. "We'll see what looks best."

Leslie got the fish from the butcher and prepackaged cut up beef for stew and two prepackaged chickens (because they looked so small). She got meaty St. Louis style ribs from the freezer compartment. "We can't cook everything all at once and these will keep longer since they're frozen," she explained.

Steve turned the package around in his hands. "We had ice boxes, but I never knew anyone who had a home freezer — until I met Howard Stark," he said. "And he only used his to store volatile chemicals and to make ice cubes for drinks."

"At the same time?" Leslie was aghast.

"Until Peggy found out. Then Howard bought a second one for ice cubes," Steve said. "Until Howard, I'd only seen freezers in businesses like the butcher's shop and the drug store."

"At the soda fountain?"

"Yes."

"Now we have home freezers. We can keep ice cream at home. Ice creeeeam," she said temptingly.

"You vamp!" Steve accused with a smile.

They turned into the cereal aisle. "Do you want more corn flakes?" When Steve said yes, she picked up the largest box. "K-E-Double L-Oh-Double Good. Kellogg's best to you," she sang under her breath, which keen-eared Steve could hear, of course. "Sorry, TV commercial jingle from my childhood," she said unapologetically.

"I remember a few from the radio," Steve said. "Mostly about cigarettes, though."

"They banned tobacco advertising from radio and TV when I was a kid," Leslie said. "You still see them in magazines, though."

"Why ban the advertising?"

"Scientists decided it's an unhealthy habit," Leslie answered. "Suck on a cigarette and you're sucking in poison."

"It always made me cough," Steve admitted. "Even the herb cigarettes that were supposed to be good for asthma."

Leslie rolled her eyes at the thought. "I know smoking was everywhere in your day," she said. "They even included cigarettes in the GI rations. I can remember cigarette vending machines where anyone, any age could drop in coins and get a pack."

"Is it illegal now?" Steve asked. He realized he hadn't noted anyone smoking, not even in the bar area of the restaurant.

"No. There are still plenty of people who smoke. It's illegal to sell cigarettes to minors. It's illegal to smoke in a lot of places," Leslie said. "Some places have signs posted 'a smoke-free' facility. We can look up the rules, if you want. I never memorized them because I've never smoked."

"I don't smoke. I never smoked much," Steve said. "It made me cough. Ma always said it was a waste of money. I gave it up entirely when I became Captain America. I didn't want little kids seeing Cap smoking."

"Such a good example," Leslie said. "That's part of the reason they banned cigarette ads from TV, to stop selling children on the idea of smoking."

"Is everybody healthier now that they don't smoke so much?" Steve asked.

Leslie laughed. "We always find bad habits," she answered. "Today we eat too many sweets, too much salt and too many fats. And we lead more sedentary lives than most people did in your day. Obesity is rampant, and that leads to diabetes, heart disease and other problems. We don't sell cigarettes in vending machines, but we do sell candy, sodas and potato chips. They're bad for you in a different way. And don't think I'm preaching. I'm no health food addict," Leslie said. "I keep trying to lose 20 pounds. Not getting anywhere fast. I can resist anything but temptation."

Steve chuckled. Leslie patted his arm. "I'm going to try to teach you good habits," she said. "But you don't really have to worry. The serum will protect you from bad food decisions."

Leslie used the corn flakes box to show Steve how to read modern food labels. She compared the corn flakes to the frosted flakes, pointing out the sugar, the calories and the sodium.

"There's a lot more salt in things than people realize and it's bad for people with high blood pressure." She also showed him the Cheerios box with its "gluten free" label and "no artificial colors, no artificial flavors." She gave a brief explanation about allergies, food sensitivities and other concerns.

"I have a problem with milk," she said. "So I get lactose free milk. There are other things I avoid with my cranky digestion, like carbonated drinks. These labels give buyers a warning. It's not something you have to worry about, but you might have a friend with a sensitivity, so now you know what to look for."

Steve was frowning at all this serious talk, so Leslie lightened it up by explaining the "moment of enlightenment" she had at age 50. "I realized you can mix cereals," she said. "You could buy regular Cheerios and chocolate ones and mix a little chocolate in a bowl of regular. Then you get a little sweetness, and not as much sugar as if you had a whole bowl of chocolate. Took me 50 years to figure that out."

Steve's familiar choice from the cereal section was oatmeal, still in the cylindrical package he remembered, though the design is different. His "try it" selection was a package of eight sugary cereals in "single serving" boxes.

"Single serving for normal eaters," Leslie said with a wink.

When the reached the front of the store again, Leslie sent Steve back to produce to get four lemons.

"I hate buying lemons," she said when he returned. "I lived in three houses in California growing up and each one had a lemon bush. I never bought lemons until I moved to New York." She chuckled. "My father called it the whiskey sour bush, because he mostly used the lemons to make mixed drinks."

In the baking area, Leslie told Steve about mixes, using pancakes as an illustration. "This has all the dry ingredients, four, baking powder, salt, sugar — whatever. All you add are the wet ingredients like eggs, oil and milk."

"Is this the same?" Steve asked, pointing to one box that reads "complete."

She showed him the instructions that read "just add water." "These must have powdered eggs and milk. I don't like the flavor of those as well," Leslie said. They studied the ingredients together.

"I've had enough powdered eggs to last me a lifetime," Steve agreed.

"I mean, if you were going camping or lived somewhere without refrigeration, 'just add water' would be real convenient," Leslie said. "But it's not my preference."

After taking the "original" pancake mix, Leslie picked up a box of fudge brownie mix and one of yellow cake mix.

Steve asked plaintively if anyone still baked from scratch. Leslie made a face at him, told him, "of course," and picked out flour, three kinds of sugar, vanilla, two kinds of oil, other baking essentials and two bags of chocolate chips, because everything is better with chocolate chips.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

Steve smirked at her and added a package of yeast to the cart. Leslie pursed her lips. "I've only made bread once," she confessed. "And that was for a class."

"Don't worry, I'll show you how," Steve said with a confidence Leslie was glad to see.

"Did your bread taste good?" he asked, as they moved on.

"Yes, I can make anything as long as I have a recipe," Leslie said with an exaggerated boastful air. "Except pate choux," she added. "That didn't work at all."

"Patty what?" Steve asked.

"Pate choux. It's the dough you use for eclairs and cream puffs — puffs up light and airy on the inside."

Steve nodded that he recognized what she was talking about.

"Mine came out flat and more like a cookie. My technique was all wrong," Leslie said. "Nowadays, I could look it up online and see a video of how to make it. That would make all the difference, I think."

"Online," Steve said thoughtfully. "On one of those computers?"

"Exactly," Leslie said, proud he'd figured out something she hadn't actually explained yet.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry, I ran out of time to finish the shopping trip, so here's a shorter chapter to meet deadline. Those are true stories about the lemon bushes (we have one now) and the pate choux._


	8. Checking Out

_A/N: So, the 1930s were the birth of many food innovations we take for granted. Cake mixes, frozen food, breakfast cereal and a lot of brand names are that old or older. (Coke was introduced in 1886 and Budweiser in 1876 and Oreos in 1912.) But Steve was really poor in those days: single mother, sickly kid, Great Depression. They ate the cheapest food — seasonal vegetables, home-canned vegetables, bruised fruit, day-old bread and tougher cuts of meat meant for stewing. He's used to boiling everything and baking from scratch. The Barnes family seemed to be better off by the time Steve's mother died. (They wanted to drive him to the cemetery, so they must have had a car.) But I'm saying Mrs. Barnes still didn't waste money in the kitchen. — one of the reasons the family was prospering. That's my story and I'm sticking to it._

* * *

 **Checking Out**

Up and down the aisles they went, pushing their two carts and piling them high.

Canned food was old hat to Steve. Leslie picked up regular and low sodium green beans, just to see whether he could taste the difference and whether the difference mattered to him. Steve tossed a can of Spam into the cart.

"Soldiers made fun of it, but it was so much better than C Rations," Steve said.

"People still make fun of it," Leslie replied. "But they still eat it, too."

Condiments came next. "We need catsup and mustard for the hotdogs and barbecue sauce for the ribs," Steve said, collecting all those items as he recited them. Leslie added mayonnaise, pickles and pickle relish to the list.

Moving through the store, Leslie made sure to pick up a large size peanut butter and some strawberry jam. Steve chose orange marmalade, with a smile that made Leslie suspect he was thinking about Peggy again. He'd picked out oranges, orange scones and orange marmalade. She sensed a theme.

She didn't want to get too many spices at once. There were so many to choose from. She took a packet of slow cooker beef stew seasoning and containers of garlic salt and cinnamon. Steve looked at the bewildering selection and just shrugged. "Salt and pepper is all I really know."

"Good thought!" There were salt and pepper shakers in the apartment, but no refills. Leslie remedied that.

In the beer section, Leslie asked Steve, "Do you want something?"

"I can't get drunk," Steve said a little glumly.

Leslie punched him in the shoulder, which hurt her hand a lot more than it hurt Steve.

"You shouldn't drink to get drunk!" She scolded. "You drink to enjoy the flavor and be companionable."

"I tried to get drunk after Bucky died, but I couldn't," Steve answered.

Leslie hugged him as hard as she'd slugged him. "It doesn't help," she said into his chest. "Maybe you can forget for awhile, but the next morning you're still grieving and you have a headache."

"It sounds like you have experience," Steve said.

"A friend died when I was in the service. Not in a war, because actually we weren't fighting anyone right then. He died in an accident, because someone else made a stupid mistake."

Steve returned her hug. Leslie held it for a minute, then pushed Steve away. "Stop making a scene in the middle of the beer aisle," she rebuked humorously. "Pick out something."

Steve regarded the myriad choices. He could go for something familiar, like Budweiser, but he told Leslie he'd like to try something different. "Pick for me?"

"Hmm, how about a little Kona beer. It's made in Hawaii. Oh, and Hawaii is a state now. Hawaii and Alaska were admitted in 1959. There are 50 stars on the flag now."

"I thought something looked odd about the flag, but I only saw it at a distance on one of the buildings," Steve said. That the two territories were now states wasn't a major shock. If anything, Steve was proud Hawaii had recovered so well from the wartime attack.

Coffee and tea were around the corner from the beer. Leslie needed tea bags for her morning fix. Steve was surprised to see flavored coffees, but stuck with a familiar brand of medium roast.

Soft drinks and bottled water were one aisle over.

"You buy water?" Steve was incredulous. Leslie tried to explain, but then just shrugged. It didn't make a lot of sense when New York had excellent water.

"We don't have to buy it. Pick out a soft drink, if you want." Coke and root beer went into the cart.

Cookies and snacks were across from the sodas.

"I liked Oreos," Steve said, picking up the familiar cookies. "Only had them for a special treat. Most of our cookies came from Ma or Mrs. Barnes or one of the neighbors baking."

"Get two flavors," Leslie suggested, so they got regular and golden Oreos.

Then they got potato chips and pretzels, too. Because you need something to go with the hotdogs, Leslie said.

Steve grinned suddenly and pounced on a bag of Cracker Jack. "They used to come in boxes," he said.

"I remember," she said. "But they still have a prize inside. I think I still have a plastic whistle I got when I was a kid."

The twosome went methodically through all the aisles, even the ones with pet food and cleaning supplies, which they didn't need. The apartment had been well stocked with cleaners and cleaning tools like sponges. Leslie did talk about disposables such as paper towels and disinfecting wipes.

"People throw away a lot of stuff these days," Steve said. He came from fix it and reuse it time.

"You don't know the half to it," Leslie said. "Packaging got to be a big problem." She showed him two small light bulbs in a blister pack as long as her arm. "The big packages help prevent theft, but it all goes into the trash when you get home. We're getting better, though. 'Reduce, reuse and recycle' is a slogan today. The plastic and cardboard in this blister pack can both be broken down and turned into something else."

That suited Steve's thrifty soul.

In the dairy section, Leslie started to pull out two half-gallon jugs of whole milk, but Steve quickly took them from her. He carefully pushed cereal boxes aside to make space for the heavy jugs. Leslie added a quart carton of lactose-free 1 percent milk for herself.

"OK, lecture mode," she said brightly. She pointed out all the variations of fat free, 1 percent, 2 percent and whole milk, plus almond, soy, rice and other nondairy brands, some with flavors.

"And there are similar choices in the other dairy products, such as butter, margarine, sour cream and yogurt."

Steve was curious about the many types and flavors of yogurt, which Leslie couldn't really explain without making sour, fermented milk sound like something that should be thrown out. "Take a few to sample," she suggested.

Because Steve seemed to favor orange, she pointed out several citrus flavors. He ended up with an armful that included caramel, vanilla and one with pretzel pieces, in addition to a number of fruit flavors.

"Is that too many?" he wondered. "What if I don't like it?"

"Knowing you, you'd eat it anyway," Leslie answered. "Or I'll eat it. Or I'll take it to work and people there will eat it. Don't worry. It won't go to waste."

Even eggs came in varieties. Fortunately, inside the cartons, they still looked like eggs. Leslie checked every egg of two 18-egg cartons. She touched each one and jiggled it, telling Steve if one didn't move, it was probably cracked and stuck to the bottom. "If any are broken, put the carton back and try another one."

Leslie always went to the frozen foods last, so her purchases wouldn't melt, which made sense to Steve.

* * *

As they turned the corner into the frozen foods section, Steve said, "You know, they made home refrigerators before the war."

"I didn't know that," Leslie said. "I thought they came later."

"No, they came out in the 1930s. We couldn't afford anything like that. Ma was raising a sick kid by herself, so we never had a lot to spare, but Mr. Barnes talked about getting one. Mrs. Barnes put her foot down and said she wouldn't have one in her house."

"Really? Why?"

"Sometimes they leaked poisonous gas. People got sick, maybe even died. Mrs. Barnes said ice boxes were safer."

"I didn't know that. I've never heard of that happening in my time," Leslie reassured him. "They must have found safer chemicals for coolant."

"I'm sure. I just didn't want you to think I'm a total hick, never hearing about refrigerators and frozen food," Steve said bashfully.

"I never would," Leslie assured him. "I apologize for my ignorance. Just tell me if I'm explaining too much."

"Nothing to apologize for. We're pals, right?"

"We're family, nephew," Leslie reminded him and they shared a smile.

Leslie watched him closely when they got to the chilly section. She'd been warned he might be sensitive to the cold. When they passed a woman opening a freezer door, Steve shivered but forged ahead bravely.

As usual, Leslie described the variety in the section. "It has everything from complete meals to frozen vegetables to fancy desserts."

They started with the vegetables. Leslie collected a bag of Tater Tots, a package of frozen spinach and a bag of frozen chopped onions. Just to show Steve what they were like, Leslie got one frozen dinner — Steve's choice, Salisbury steak.

The doors were frosted over with condensation, so Leslie had to hold them open to find her selections. Steve stepped out of the direct line of the doors every time they opened.

"You OK?" Leslie asked.

He straightened his shoulders. "I'm fine," he said, and Leslie could tell it was a lie. She decided to hurry.

"There's a lot of pizza here," Steve commented.

"Frozen pizza isn't bad when you're too busy to go out, but I want to start you right. New York has some marvelous pizzerias," Leslie said.

"Really?"

"Yes, GIs coming back from Italy — maybe some of your friends — brought a taste for pizza. It became very popular after the war."

"I can understand that," Steve said. "It was simple, but so good."

"And here are desserts," Leslie said. "Frozen pies or just pie crust if you want to make your own. And ice creeeeam."

"Oh, Good Humor bars!" Steve almost squealed.

"Anything you want," Leslie reminded him.

She bought cartons of vanilla bean and caramel fudge swirl ice cream and a two-slice package of key lime pie, because she thought Steve might like it.

"What do you know, we're done!" Leslie cheered.

They escaped from the freezer section and went to the checkout line. Their two full carts attracted attention that made Leslie wince.

"You OK?" Steve muttered.

"I'm not supposed to attract undue attention," she answered.

Steve pulled out his captain expression and surveyed the room. People dropped their eyes and turned back to their shopping and their cellphones.

"No attention now," he reported.

* * *

In her discussion about labels, Leslie had explained about bar codes and scanners.

Steve watched in fascination as the checker slid items across the glass and numbers added up on the screen, but when they moved to the second cart overflowing with food, Steve began to fidget, as the total mounted.

"It's too much," he whispered hoarsely.

It was an alarming amount, even to Leslie. She knew it seemed like a fortune to Steve. Aware of the watching checker and bagger, she caught Steve's anxious face between her hands. "Steve, you just just got back into town. Your cupboards are empty. Let us do this for you. Your Uncle Nick and I can afford it."

Steve looked tearful at Leslie's kindly words, but his expression grew more complicated when he processed "Uncle Nick."

"Thank you, Aunt Leslie," he said in a voice choked with emotion (suppressed laughter).

Leslie patted his cheek and handed over the SHIELD-backed credit card. The checker and bagger beamed at the loving gesture.

"Do you need help out?" the bagger asked.

A funny expression crossed Leslie's face, but she chuckled and patted her "nephew's" muscular arm. "No, we can handle it."

They pushed the two carts into the store's foyer, what the Californian always thought of as the air lock to keep winter winds from blowing straight into the store. Leslie put out her hand to stop Steve from exiting.

"I'm such an idiot," she said matter-of-factly. "We walked here. How are we going to get all this home?"

* * *

 _A/N: Oops. The author forgot something. Leslie will figure it out.  
I learned about the refrigerator coolant leaks on "Mysteries at the Museum."_


	9. Home Again

**Home Again**

"How are we going to get all this home?" Leslie said, exasperated at herself.

"We can't take the carts home? It's only a couple of blocks and I'll bring them right back," Steve said.

"The wheels will lock up, if we take them past the parking lot," Leslie explained. "Too many people have stolen them. And, like I said, I'm supposed to keep you undercover — and the residence, too. It's a hideout," she whispered. "If I attract attention to it, all of us will be in trouble. It would be like leading a grocery parade."

Steve subtly hefted each cart. "I could carry all this," he determined. "But it would be an awkward load."

"And still a parade," Leslie said glumly.

"Call a cab?" Steve suggested.

"Hideout," Leslie reminded him, pulling out her cellphone. "But, maybe something like that. I'll do what hotel guests should always do, call the concierge. Hello, Carlos."

She explained their dilemma.

Steve's enhanced hearing could detect Carlos laughing on the other end of the call. But when he'd expressed his amusement sufficiently, he promised to take care of it. "I'll be there in 10 minutes."

* * *

As the left the store, shoppers glanced at the mismatched pair with their overloaded shopping carts.

"Aren't we attracting attention here?" Steve asked.

"Some, but here we're just shoppers waiting for their ride. Our purchase is impressive, but not bizarre or particularly memorable. Parading through the streets, that's memorable. People might even take photos. People take photos of every damn thing these days, now that phones have cameras," Leslie said.

Steve nodded understanding. A moment later, Carlos came through the door. He was dressed in a deliveryman's coveralls with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms. He was pushing a dolly with two large boxes on it. Carlos unpacked the largest box, taking out a big backpack and several cloth grocery bags.

"Now, let's split up the load," he said.

They neatly portioned out boxed goods and heavy items such as cans and jars, then packed more fragile items, such as meat and frozen goods, on top. Steve put heavy, awkward items, such as the bag of potatoes, in the backpack, settling his precious oranges on top. He shrugged on the heavy backpack, then picked up two cloth bags, one loaded with produce and one with eggs and dairy items. Leslie was left with two bags of lightweight and fragile goods, such as bread and chips and cookies.

When everything was stored to Carlos' satisfaction, he tipped back the dolly. "I'll go first and take this to the service entrance, while you two stroll home. OK?"

"Perfect. Thank you, Carlos," Leslie said.

"It was smart of you to call me," Carlos replied. "We'll make an agent of you yet."

"God forbid," the file clerk said fervently.

After a few minutes, Steve and Leslie followed Carlos out of the store. He was blocks ahead by then and turned on a side street to approach the residence from the rear. Steve and Leslie walked home with a normal load of groceries.

* * *

Carlos and a bald white man in a concierge uniform were waiting at Steve's door. "This is Paul. He comes on at 6, then Manny is on from 2 to 10. "

"I'm sorry for keeping you past your time," Steve apologized, because it was nearly 7 p.m.

Carlos shrugged. "I was briefing Paul about the new resident."

"They were gossiping," Leslie translated.

"Maybe," Paul said, in a surprisingly deep voice. He held out his hand. "I'm hon ored to meet you, captain."

"Just Steve," he answered, shaking the man's hand. "I don't think I'm a captain any more."

No one could think what to say in answer, so they just went inside.

The four made quick work of stocking the cupboards and refrigerator with supplies. They let Steve decide where things went, because it was his kitchen. Leslie offered suggestions only when he asked.

"If I put the cereal on the top shelf, you won't be able to reach it," Steve said,

"Put it on the lower shelf," she suggested. "Put baking mixes and things we don't need every day on the highest shelf. Anyway, there's a footstool next to the refrigerator, so I can reach the top shelf if I need to."

The Man with the Plan quickly sorted out the most used items and assigned them to the most easily reached places.

When Leslie stored the root vegetables in a bin in a dark corner of the pantry cupboard, she remembered she planned to make stew with them. It was a curse of hers that she was always thinking ahead to the next day's activities. Sometimes it made it hard to sleep, but sometimes it was handy when she forgot something.

She fetched her cellphone and called Hill.

"Maria, could someone get the slow cooker from my apartment and bring it to Steve's?" Leslie asked. "That's one thing I couldn't fit in my suitcase."

"I'll do it!" a voice said in the background.

"You're going to Russia!" Maria said.

"It's on the way," the voice called back.

"Wheels up in 40!" Maria shouted.

Leslie heard a door slam. "Was that Natasha?" she asked.

"Yes," Maria said dryly. "She was in wardrobe when the captain made his great escape. She ended up in lockdown with the noncombatants and is pissed she missed the action. She's dying to get a look at the famous Captain America that Coulson is so fixated on."

"I could have told her where to find my spare key in my desk," Leslie said.

"It's Romanoff. She won't need a key," Maria predicted.

Leslie hung up and turned to the men. "Romanoff is bringing me my slow cooker," she told Paul.

"I'm not likely to try to stop her," he said dryly.

"Smart man," Leslie agreed.

"Is she dangerous?" Steve asked.

"There's no one more dangerous," Carlos said.

"She's always surprising. She heard what I said to Hill," Leslie said. "She was trained to concentrate, so she can hear the voice on the other end of the telephone."

"I can do that, too," Steve offered. "But that's because of the serum, not training. Is your home really on the way?"

"Not even close," Leslie said. "My place is on the opposite side of headquarters from here. And then she'll have to go back to catch her flight."

"I hope she's not late," Steve said, worried someone would get in trouble for helping Leslie.

"She'll manage," Leslie said dryly. "She's the best."

* * *

The guys had left and Leslie and Steve were setting out the vegetables she wanted for the stew the next day, when Leslie got a text that Natasha was on her way up.

Steve answered the door to see a small, red-haired woman carrying a large stone crock.

"Hey," the woman greeted him.

Steve was taken aback by her friendly yet appraising stare.

"Uh, hi," he stammered. "Here, let me take that. It looks heavy."

"It is," Natasha agreed.

It was heavier than Steve expected. Romanoff was stronger than she looked. When he took the slow cooker, Natasha swung a bag off her shoulder and gave it to Leslie. Bottles of wine clinked together.

"Thought you might need a drink," she said.

"We're good, but thank you."

"Your cat says hello," Natasha added, never taking her eyes off Steve, in a calculating manner, not a salacious one.

"Hill said you have a mission to get to," Leslie said. "Stop staring and scoot."

Natasha grinned at her. "You're welcome," she said, and moved off gracefully.

Leslie rolled her eyes and shut the door.

"Wow," Steve commented.

"Yes, she's a force of nature," Leslie agreed.

"Um, you have a cat?" Steve asked.

"Just one. Not like Melody. My neighbor is feeding her."

"I'm sorry to take you away from your life," Steve said humbly.

"Pssh, I'm having the time of my life. I'm getting paid to shop and cook and play with electronics. And I'm making a new friend. Best week ever," Leslie said, making Steve smile. She really enjoyed making the lost soldier smile.

* * *

Leslie directed Steve to set the slow cooker on the counter. She really liked Steve's apartment, especially the kitchen. There was enough room on the counter for all the appliances she could think of. In her own, smaller space, she kept lesser used appliances on a shelf and toted them to the counter when needed.

Leslie knew the residence apartments were well supplied. They were for newcomers to New York, visitors and temporary assignments and needed breaks for operatives who spent most of their time elsewhere. Some liked to cook for relaxation, because they got tired to eating on the run all the time, so the kitchens were stocked with almost everything, and everything else was in storage if an agent asked for a six-speed juicer or an automatic bread machine.

The apartments were also thoroughly sound-proofed so residents couldn't bother each other with nightmares or loud music.

It really was a nice place, Leslie thought.

"Are we going to set up the 'TV' now?" Steve asked.

They both looked at the several boxes and the pile of cords that Bourkin had thrown on the floor, a pile which, in the manner of Christmas lights, seemed to have grown larger and more tangled while they were out.

"I don't think I'm up for that right now," Leslie confessed. "We can do it tomorrow, OK?"

Steve agreed with relief.

"But we can watch a movie on my laptop," Leslie said. She pulled her computer out of her bag and sat on the couch with it on her lap, demonstrating the origin of the name. "Some people work like this all the time, but it makes my arthritic knees ache, so I mostly use it on a table."

"What should we watch?" Steve asked.

"Hmm, how about you tell me an actor you like and I'll find something they made after the war," she suggested.

Of course Steve couldn't come up with a name when challenged out of the blue. His gaze roamed the apartment for inspiration, landing on a framed photo on the wall. The apartment had been decorated with items designed to not remind Steve of his past, but the desert landscape did remind him of something.

"There was a movie I liked, 'Beau Geste,'" Steve said.

"Battle scenes and brotherly love, sounds like your cup of tea," Leslie teased. She hadn't seen the movie, but had read the book. "Who was in it?"

"Gary Cooper, Ray Milland and Robert Preston were the brothers," Steve said.

Leslie grinned. "We can work with that. Do you want a serious, suspenseful Western that's considered one of the best westerns ever made or a light-hearted yet highly acclaimed musical comedy."

"I think I'm too tired for a serious film," Steve admitted.

"OK, 'Music Man' it is. It's Robert Preston's best known role. 'High Noon' was Gary Cooper's masterpiece, which I've never seen because it's too serious," Leslie confessed. She found "Music Man' in her provider's file and queued it up, then paused it. "Do you want popcorn to go with the movie?" she asked.

Steve's agreement was fervent enough to make Leslie frown suspiciously. "Are you still hungry?" she asked.

"I just ate two full meals an hour ago," Steve replied.

Leslie's eyes narrowed. "That was not an answer, mister," she said sternly. "If you're hungry, tell me. We just bought out half a grocery store."

Steve's shoulders hunched in embarrassment. "I don't like to be a glutton," he said in a small voice. "I fell like I'm taking more than my share."

"Steve, we're not on rationing any more. There's no reason for you to go hungry."

And yet there were still people who went hungry every day, Leslie thought. But she was NOT going to get into that right now. Steve didn't need to feel guilty about the extra caloric intake he needed.

"Have you ever actually eaten until you were full?" she asked.

Steve actually thought about his answer. "Not since I was a kid, before the Crash," he decided. "After … there was enough to go around, but not enough to feel full, except when we splurged at Christmas. In the Army, we go three squares a day, except when we were out in the field. Then we had C Rations and whatever we could scrounge." He grinned suddenly. "There was one time, we found a half-burned farmhouse. The people had escaped but hadn't been able to take everything with them. There was a ham, two wheels of cheese, a loaf of bread that was only a little stale and, in the well, a small crock of butter," he said it almost reverently. "We feasted that night and prayed for the family who had been forced to leave it all behind."

Leslie shook her head in wonder.

"So that's the only time you've really been full since you had your growing spurt. I can't believe you survived on such short rations. Your body runs at high revs. You need high octane food."

"Dr. Erskine said my body would be more efficient," Steve offered.

"I don't understand it, but I know you can have as much food as you want here and now," Leslie said firmly. "And since you're recovering from trauma, you need to build your muscle back up."

Leslie pointed out some quick snacks Steve could make without having to understand the kitchen equipment — peanut butter or lunch meat sandwiches, cheese and fruit and his orange scones. "If you get hungry in the middle of the night, just take what you want. It's all yours. And, in the meantime, let's fix a couple of hotdogs and some popcorn to go with the movie."

"That's too much trouble," Steve protested.

Leslie grinned at him. "Not so much. I'm going to show you the magic of the microwave."

Leslie told him about microwave ovens that use radiation to cook food from the inside. "As I understand it, the microwaves vibrate the molecules in the food. It's great for reheating food and cooking simple things like hotdogs. It's not real good for baked goods."

She showed him how to reduce the power and set just a few seconds to warm up a scone or a muffin.

"It's best to start with a short time, because you can always add time, you can't take it away. Over-microwaved food gets tough and can burn." She studied the controls. "I haven't used this model before. It's a higher power than the one I have at home. Let's try one minute for two hotdogs."

She pricked holes in the hotdogs — "to let the steam out so they don't explode, wrapped them in a paper towel and put them on a plate. She let Steve set the time. While they waited, watching the carousel go around inside, she told him about what dishes were safe for the microwave.

"Glass and paper and most ceramics are good. Never, ever put anything metal inside," she warned. "It can cause sparks, maybe even a fire. No tin foil, no metal cans, not even a plate with gold rim or silver stripe. Nothing metallic at all."

"Understood," Steve said with a salute.

When the oven beeped, Steve took out the food and poked at it. "It's warm, but not really hot," he reported.

"Give it another half minute, then."

While the hotdogs cooked some more, Leslie showed Steve the labels on the bottoms of some cups and dishes and plastic storage containers, so he could tell which were microwave safe, which were OK for the oven and which could go in the dishwasher.

"Microwave, freezer, dishwasher," he recited, pointing at one plastic container. "Never in the oven."

"Excellent."

While Steve put condiments on his hotdogs, Leslie got out a bag of microwave popcorn.

"This is a favorite trick," she said. "Remember what I said about making holes in the hotdogs so they didn't explode? Well, popcorn is made to explode."

She pushed a button marked "popcorn." In a moment, the popping sound began and Steve watched in fascination as the bag expanded. The popping tapered off before the time was done and Leslie turned the machine off. "Always listen for the popping to stop. Otherwise it will burn and smoke up the place."

With their food settled, they returned to the living room to watch their movie. They sat side by side on the couch with the laptop on a kitchen chair pulled close and Leslie started "The Music Man."

It was funny and the music was great. Steve enjoyed it, though he got melancholy at one point.

"I suppose they're all gone now," he murmured.

"Some of them," Leslie admitted. "But Shirley Jones is still going strong and the little boy, he's become a famous director."

Steve was interested. "Can we see something he's done?"

"Of course," Leslie said, then thought, we can watch "Apollo 13," but not until after I tell you about the space program! So many things to cover!

Smiling, Steve went to bed with the ridiculous song "Shipoopi" going through his head.

Leslie went to bed with the feeling of a job well done.

Of course it didn't last.

* * *

Leslie always had trouble sleeping in a strange bed. She was trying to shut off her mind, which was overly busy overly planning the next day's activities, when she heard a clatter from the other bedroom.

Though her nightgown was muumuu style, perfectly respectable to wear on the streets, she still put on a robe when she went to Steve's bedroom. She rapped on the door, which swung open because it wasn't latched.

Steve was having a nightmare, thrashing amid the covers. He'd knocked his alarm clock off the nightstand, which is what Leslie had heard.

Leslie was not a brave person. She had no intention of going close to a Super Soldier who was flailing around, but she couldn't leave him in such distress either.

She got a broom and poked him with the handle a few times, calling for him to wake up.

He came awake with a shout of "No!" accidentally snatching the broom out of Leslie's hands. She hissed at the pain this caused her arthritis, which brought Steve fully back to himself.

"Leslie?" he almost sobbed. He saw she was holding her hand. He saw the clock and the broom on the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's just my arthritis. You didn't do anything wrong." She moved toward him, but he hunched away, so she stayed where she was. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Steve shook his head. "Just .. go back to sleep, please?" he asked.

"OK, you try to get some rest, too. And come and get me if you need me. It's not a problem. Honest."

"I'll be OK," Steve promised. Leslie didn't believe him, but she left him alone.

After a long while, Steve did go back to sleep and woke again after another nightmare. This time he didn't wake up Leslie. He just curled around his pillow and wept for the life he'd lost.

Steve Rogers' first day in the 21st century ended in tears.

* * *

 _A/N: Poor Steve. It can't all go easily, can it? Hope you liked Natasha's cameo._


	10. Not So Good Morning

**Not So Good Morning**

Leslie woke up at 6:30, dammit. She always woke at 6:30, even when she didn't have to go to work. It was annoying. When she finished grousing to herself, she noticed a rhythmic thumping noise from the other room. It wasn't loud enough to wake her, but she couldn't help but notice it once she woke up. She pulled her nightgown around her and went out to the living room.

The first thing she noticed was the strong smell of pine cleaner. The second thing was the super soldier doing jumping jacks in his living room. Steve's face was set in grim lines, as if the exercise was helping him defeat an enemy. Which seemed reasonable to Leslie.

"Couldn't sleep?" Leslie asked, rubbing her eyes then putting on her glasses.

Steve brought his jumping jacks to a halt, but didn't answer.

"More nightmares? Want to talk about it?" Leslie pushed, just a little. "The experts say it helps to talk, honest. But if you don't remember, that's OK. I hardly ever remember my dreams."

Steve sighed and sat heavily in an armchair that was half facing away from his roommate.

"Unfortunately, I have perfect recall now. Including nightmares," he answered, staring at his hands the whole time. "The first one started out OK. Bucky and I were at the World's Fair, except sometimes it was the Stark Expo. You know how dreams jump around."

Leslie nodded, but didn't interrupt his words.

"We were walking around seeing all the amazing sights. Some were things you showed me, some were things from the fair and some were just wild imaginings, but we were enjoying ourselves, eating corn flakes out of popcorn boxes. We got money out of a wall — big red lips spit it at us — and we spent it on silly gifts for our families. And then, we were suddenly at the supermarket with two carts full of food and pennies in our pockets. The checker accused us of being thieves and we ran."

Steve looked up with a wry grin. "That's an old nightmare, from when times were bad," he confessed. "I always dreamed about not having enough money to buy food or medicine or something else. Then we'd be accused of stealing and try to run, but my asthma would slow us down and we'd get arrested and thrown in jail and Ma and Bucky's Ma would be crying ..." Steve sighed. "Anyway, last night in my dream the asthma hit and I couldn't run. Bucky tried to pick me up but I was too big to carry. We both fell — into a foxhole with shells bursting all around. And we charged out, with the Commandos yelling around us, and then we were on the train and Bucky was sliding toward the edge ... That's when you woke me up, and I'm glad because I hate the part when I see him fall. I see it all the time in my memories, but I hate it most in the nightmares, when it's just like being there all over again."

"Was the second nightmare the same?" Leslie asked, after Steve was silent for several minutes.

He took a breath. "No, that time I was alone in the supermarket, lost in huge aisles that seemed miles long. I could hear Bucky and Peggy and my friends talking, but I couldn't find them. I was running through the aisles, when I saw you at the exit, calling me, trying to help me get out." Steve hunched over. He looked ashamed. "But I didn't want to go with you. I wanted to find my friends. So I ran away from you, back into the empty aisles." He breathed deeply, blinking away tears. "Then I woke up and I needed to do something, so I started cleaning."

"Did you clean the whole kitchen last night?" Leslie asked, admiring the sparkling, pine-scented counters.

"And my bathroom," Steve answered. "I needed to do something. I wanted to punch something," he said fiercely. "I wanted to run until I was exhausted, but I didn't want to wake you up or get you in trouble by leaving the apartment, so I cleaned and then I started calisthenics."

"Do you feel any better?"

"A little."

But only a little, judging by his tense tone of voice.

"If exercise will make you feel better, I'll find places you can go to run and to punch things," Leslie promised. "I know there are a couple places around here that have been cleared for SHIELD use."

"Thank you," Steve answered. And now he did sound a little better.

"And do you want me to find you someone to talk to?" Leslie asked hesitantly. "Therapy is for trauma victims, not just for crazy people."

"I ... I don't know," Steve confessed. "I ... I don't mind talking to you."

"OK, we can stick to that for now. I'm no professional, though," she warned. "I think we should find you a professional, but we don't have to do it right now. This is only your second day here."

She hesitated. "Can I ask you one thing?"

"Yes." Steve didn't hesitate, but he did brace himself.

"Were you suicidal when you crashed the Valkyrie?"

That was plain enough speech, wasn't it?

"I want you to really think about it and tell me the truth," Leslie added. "There are some historians who have speculated that Bucky's death might have made you feel that way."

"Did Peggy … do you know if Peggy felt that way?" Steve felt like a fool for asking, because how could Leslie know? He didn't know that she and Peggy talked sometimes, two of just a few women in the agency at the time.

"She was often interviewed about you," Leslie said. "She always said that Barnes' death might have made you angry and a little reckless, but you weren't suicidal."

"I wasn't. I had a date," he said sadly. "I wanted to get back, but that plane was so damned fast and the controls were labeled in code, because Schmidt was a paranoid ba ... ah."

"You can say 'bastard' in front of me, soldier. Don't forget I was in the army, too," Leslie said, amused.

Steve took a deep breath. "I couldn't decipher the controls. I couldn't turn off the automatic pilot. Every time I let go of the stick, the plane resumed course for New York City. I couldn't ... I had to force it down and hold it until we crashed. And then I couldn't get out," he said simply. "I wanted to get out, but I couldn't."

"I believe you," Leslie said. "But I want you to keep talking to me about how you feel now, because this is such a traumatic event for you. I want you to be happy again. I want you to fit in again. I'll do everything I can to make that happen," she promised.

He looked so lost, so defeated.

"I want to go home," he said sadly. "But I can't."

Leslie asked if it was OK to touch him. When he gave permission, she draped herself over his back in a motherly hug. "I'm sorry you've been given this terrible burden. I'm sorry you can't go home again. But I hope I can help you make a new home here."

He took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter, calling on Captain America to help Steve Rogers. "Right."

"OK, now go take a shower, because you stink. Then I'm expecting you to make me breakfast," Leslie ordered, in a bossy a manner as she could manage.

It got a chuckle from Steve as she'd hoped. "Yes, ma'am," he barked and obeyed. Steve was very glad to follow Leslie orders. She was an interesting teacher and he wanted to learn about everything in this new world. Most of all, he needed to stay busy to stop from thinking about the world he'd lost.

* * *

Leslie got dressed quickly and set out the ingredients for pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. Electric griddles were the first lesson of the day. Lessons were always more memorable when they came with a reward.

Leslie had cooked for Steve the day before, but today she expected him to cook for her — with some instruction, of course.

"It doesn't matter if all these gadgets are unfamiliar to you," she said, when he rejoined her. He looked refreshed by the shower, no matter how little sleep hed gotten. "They're unfamiliar to everyone the first time. Even if you know how to use a toaster, each model is different, so they all come with instruction booklets which are all in this drawer." She showed him the small pile of booklets and pointed out each appliance, then they started to make a hearty breakfast.

When Steve got out French bread for toast, Leslie noticed all the loaves had been opened then neatly fastened shut again. And when she got out the jam and the marmalade, she saw the peanut butter was about a third gone.

"I'm glad you got something to eat last night," she commented.

Steve looked a little sheepish, but was reassured by Leslie's approving nod.

"I tasted each of the breads we got. I like this one the best, but all of them were good," Steve said. He admitted his standards weren't high, after living on army rations.

They put bread in the popup toaster and bacon in the microwave. Steve felt he was an old hand at the microwave, but he was impressed at how crispy it got the bacon.

Leslie liked an electric griddle for pancakes, because you could control the temperature so well, but Steve was relieved when she put a skillet on the stovetop for the scrambled eggs. This was something he was familiar with, though the stove controls were different.

"I was afraid no one cooked on the stove anymore," he said.

"Stoves get plenty of use," Leslie assured him. "We even still boil things," she added with a twinkle in her eye. "And you may cook all your food in pots and pans if you wish. I just want you to see all your options, before you decide."

One option Steve liked was the coffeemaker that even had a timer, so it would be ready when you got up in the morning.

"Buck would have loved this," he said, with just a trace of sadness. "He loved his coffee and I was never much good at making it. It was always watery because I was used to being stingy with the grounds."

"I'm a tea drinker myself," Leslie said. "I only like coffee when it has sugar, milk and chocolate in it."

"Chocolate," Steve chuckled.

"Oh, it's a thing. It's called a mocha," Leslie said. "Remember, I told you about the $4 coffees. There are many coffee houses with fancy flavored coffee — half-caf hazelnut latte with soy milk and no whip," she chanted.

"I'm a little alarmed that the only part of that I understood was 'soy milk,'" Steve said. "And I'd never heard of soy milk until yesterday." He took a sip of his coffee with sugar and cream, because he always needed extra calories. He savored the taste, then nodded. "I can see that chocolate would be a good addition."

"We will need to go to Starbucks for coffee, and McDonald's for hamburgers. They are cultural phenomena, so you need to try them at least once," Leslie said, only half teasing. "Though I suspect you'll prefer small mom and pop diners and cafes."

Steve capably whipped up a skillet of scrambled eggs and flipped pancakes on the griddle. With just a little instruction on the appliance controls, he fixed the food by himself, reading the instructions on the pancake mix without any prompting. And he got pancakes and eggs ready at the same time, which was a trick Leslie didn't always manage. Leslie applauded and meant it.

When breakfast was done — a small portion for Leslie and a mountain for Steve — Leslie turned to the slow cooker.

"I like this because I can set it up in the morning and the food will be hot and ready when I get home from work. It's the equivalent of letting a pot sit on the back burner, but safer and less likely to burn the food," she said. "We can have the stew cooking while we sort out our electronics project."

There was a box inside the heavy brown crock. Leslie took it out and unfolded a plastic slow cooker liner, which she smoothed out in the crock as best as she could.

"What's that for?" Steve asked.

"It keeps the crock clean," she answered. "I have a hard time washing it, because it's so heavy, so I use the liners." When it was arranged to her liking — she had a small slow cooker, so the liners never fit smoothly — she began to prepare the food. She set Steve to cubing the root vegetables while she browned the chunks of stew beef. She saw that onions still made Steve's eyes water, but the redness faded as soon as he turned away. To her, that was as impressive as any show of strength.

Cubes of turnip and potato, slices of carrot and wedges of onion went into the pot with the meat. Steve was fascinated when Leslie squirted a mound of minced garlic from a tube onto a table knife and spread it across several pieces of meat. "I am too old to spend my time mincing garlic. It makes my hands hurt," she told Steve.

Then she mixed the spice packet with canned beef stock and a quarter cup of red wine from the bag Natasha had brought. She poured it all over the food in the crock, then guided Steve through the process of switching it on and setting the temperature and timer. They set the glass lid in place.

The soldier studied it for a long moment. "Nothing's happening," he said in disappointment.

Leslie chuckled. "It's not the microwave. It's a slow cooker. If you check in a few minutes, the lid will be steaming up and eventually the smell of stew will begin to escape."

"And then I'll be hungry all day," Steve joked.

"That goes without saying," Leslie teased him in return. "Setting this on low, it will take about eight hours to cook, just right for dinner. If we wanted it for lunch, we could put it on high. Now, shall we dare the tangled pile of electrical cables?"

Steve straightened his back as if facing a firing squad. "How do we do this?"

"One step at a time," Leslie answered, leading him to the living room.

One step at a time was the new story of his life, Steve thought.

When Leslie surveyed the boxes and devices, she was relieved to see it wasn't as complicated as she'd feared. It had the basic boxes to control the TV (which also had a radio tuner and a built-in Internet capability), the cable connection and a Blu-ray/DVD/CD player. The mess was mostly cables and speakers that had been taken out of their boxes, so it looked like a lot more than it was.

"First untangle the cables, while I find the instructions." Fortunately Bourkin hadn't taken the instructions out of the boxes, because he distained to use them.

Leslie showed Steve how the different kinds of cables had different connectors on the ends, which matched up to plugs on the devices. "Honestly, I don't know what all they do or even what they're all called," she said. "But I know to match up the pieces."

While they studied the components, Leslie set up her laptop and clicked on her favorite music stream. It filled the room with a Mozart piano concerto.

"My mom loved classical music," Steve said wistfully. "We'd always listen to concerts on the radio and even went to a couple of free concerts in the park."

"I seem to be a music purist," Leslie said with a laugh. "I like classical music with no words and a capella singing with no instruments."

"Like barbershop?" Steve asked.

"Yes. I'll have to introduce you to the group called Pentatonix. They won a competition show in November. They're going to be big, I hope."

* * *

 _A/N: I'd intended to get through the electronics installation, but I found myself at 3,000 words and still not close to my intended stopping place, so I decided to stop here. I adore Pentatonix, who won "The Sing Off" in November 2011. Next time, a history of recording technology and the development of television. I didn't realize until I was researching that even vinyl LP albums weren't developed until after World War II._

 _Fair warning, with the Dodgers going to the World Series and Halloween coming up, I may be too distracted to get much writing done._


	11. Home Theater

**Home Theater**

"So, a brief history of home theater." Leslie thought for a moment. "You remember reel-to-reel tape and movie projectors where the film started on one reel and spooled onto another?" Steve nodded.

"About the time I was in junior high school, they figured out how to put audio tape in a cassette." Leslie went to the suitcase in her room and pulled out a few visual aids — an audiocassette, a VHS cassette, a CD and a DVD. There were already a few Blu-ray discs sitting by the equipment. She showed Steve the audiocassette, tilting it so he could see the protected length of tape inside. "With this, it was easy to play music or to record songs. My friends and I made up radio programs, complete with commercials, and recorded them. By the time I graduated from college, they'd done the same thing with film." She showed him the VHS tape. "I loved taping shows. For the first time, you could record a TV show and watch it at a different time. Before, you were locked to the network schedule and if you missed a show, you could only hope it was on during the summer rerun season."

A lot of the specifics Leslie mentioned were unfamiliar to Steve, but he followed the gist of her story, relating it to the radio programs of his youth.

"If you wanted to buy a movie on VHS, it was really expensive at first," Leslie continued. "To record a two-hour movie, they had to tape it at live speed. It took two hours, and even if they could record more than one duplicate at a time, it took a long time, so tapes could cost $80, which was a lot of money in the 1970s."

"Sounds like a lot to me," Steve agreed.

"Eventually, they figured out a way to speed up the recording, just in time to be supplanted by digital media," Leslie said. "If you want to know the real technical differences between analog and digital, we'll have to look it up. But in a gross simplification, analog is the recording method you were used to — a needle drawing a path in a record that another needle will follow to reproduce the sound. Digital is like recording pictures and sound using Morse Code. The ones and zeros in computer coding recreate the sound and pictures the way the dots and dashes in Morse code recreate a message."

Steve regarded her doubtfully. Leslie sighed. "OK, I'm not good at explaining. Just know that digital is a common way things are recorded." She showed Steve the CD and the DVD. "This is a record album — a lot of songs — and this is a movie, recorded digitally."

"They're small," Steve said, admiring the iridescence as he carefully turned it around, holding them only by the edges as instructed.

"You don't want to get fingerprints on them. They don't play well when they're dirty."

"Just like records," Steve said.

"They are records, just digitally recorded."

"So, no one has records these days?" he asked a little sadly. He didn't see a record player among the devices.

"Some people still like them. In fact, vinyl is making a comeback," Leslie answered. "Now that there are so many ways of recording, they call the records you're used to 'vinyl,'" she explained. "People like the sound quality. I'm sure we can find a record player and some good LPs for you."

"What's an LP?" Steve asked.

Leslie stared at him. "You didn't have LPs in the '40s? LPs — long playing records? What did you have, 45s? 78s?"

"Forty-fives were pistols," Steve said seriously. "78 rpm, that was the standard for records. They came up with other speeds?" he asked.

Leslie nodded. "Yes, before my time. We had old 78s in the house, my dad collected them, but the new singles were released on 45 rpm disks and we had long-playing albums with multiple songs that spun at thirty-three and a third. We'll have to find a record store to browse in. I'm sure I heard about one close by."

"I don't really understand the difference between analog and digital," Steve confessed.

"I'm sorry I don't understand it well enough to explain it properly," Leslie said. "Let me give you another example. I wanted to make a friend a Christmas mix tape with my audiocassette. That was a tape with songs from several records that I owned. I had to play each song and sit there with a microphone to record them. Nowadays …"

Leslie opened iTunes and showed Steve a list of songs. "To make a CD with a mix of songs all I have to do is select the files and make a new playlist. Then burn them to a CD."

"Burn?"

"That's just the name for it. It doesn't get hot," Leslie reassured him. She demonstrated by dragging files over and burning a CD of songs from the 1940s, '50s and '60s that she thought Steve would like. "We'll play this on the CD player when we get it hooked up."

Steve smirked at her. "I guess I can take a hint," he said and reached for the cords.

"You're better at this than I am," Leslie said in admiration, as Steve deftly sorted the cables and matched up the connectors.

"I built a crystal set using an oatmeal box when I was a kid," Steve said. "Then during the war in Italy, we couldn't use powered radios because the enemy could detect them, so we built foxhole radios using rusty razor blades and pencils."

"You're amazing," Leslie said, as Steve got all the parts sorted out. Together they read the instructions to see what order to connect the components.

Looking at the instructions, Steve saw one piece had an AM/FM tuner, among other abbreviations he didn't recognize.

"So people still listen to radio?" he asked in relief.

"Absolutely, but it's a little different than you remember. You won't find many ..." She tried to think of a descriptive term and settled on "... radio plays on the air. The soap operas and dramas and comedies and westerns pretty much moved to television where you could see what was going on. TV kept a lot of the old format, too, with series that feature different stories (or continuing stories) about the same characters every week. Early TV borrowed a lot of radio series, like 'Amos and Andy' and 'The Lone Ranger.' Do you remember Gene Autry, the singing cowboy?" Steve nodded that he recognized the actor. "He got rich because he owned the TV rights to his movies, which no one thought were worth anything at the time. But when TV stations started full operations, they needed something to fill the time."

"So what's on radio these days?" Steve asked.

"Music and talk, mostly. Different stations focus on different kinds of music — like my favorite classical station," she said, nodding at her computer, which was playing Rachmaninoff at the moment. "There are news stations and stations where people call in and talk to the hosts, usually about politics or sports." She made a face. "Not my favorite type of show. If I want to listen to people complain, I'll go to work."

Steve chuckled.

"And there are lots of sports stations," Leslie said. "You can still listen to baseball games on the radio, just like the 1940s."

"Broadcast through the air and everything?" Steve asked.

"Yes, radio still works that was, though there are also other ways to connect."

"Like through a computer," Steve said, because that's what she was doing right then.

"It's called 'streaming.' KUSC is being broadcast over the airwaves, but they also stream their broadcast over the computer, so I can listen anywhere, all over the U.S. and even in other countries."

"KUSC, that's a western station," Steve realized, because it started with a K.

"Yes, the USC stands for University of Southern California," Leslie said. "When I'm at home I listen on the FM radio, but I can still listen to them through the Internet when I'm in New York."

"Does TV work like radio?" Steve asked.

"It used to," Leslie said. "You could plug in a TV, raise the antenna and watch whatever channels were available. I was lucky growing up in L.A. because we had …" She counted on her fingers. "… seven stations. A lot of places only had the major networks, names you might know — ABC, CBS and NBC."

"ABC was new during the war," Steve commented. "Nice to know something's survived from the old days."

"Everything today was built on the foundations of your time," Leslie said. "Maybe you can't recognize it, but you can't imagine a tomato plant when all you've seen is a seed."

Steve nodded.

"Anyway, TV started as radio with pictures. I had a little TV I carried back and forth to college. It just fit under the seat in the airline. One day a flight was delayed and I plugged in the TV and watched shows until the flight was ready. I even had a radio with TV sound, I could listen to my favorite game show while driving. But none of those work any more. In 2009, the country switched to an all-digital signal. You need a new TV or a converter for your old TV. Fortunately, my mom's older TV is connected to cable, which converts the signal for her."

"So you can't just get TV free over the airwaves?" Steve asked.

"You can, but the selection is limited — though there are more channels available with the digital signal than there was with analog. Instead of channels 2 and 4, you'll find channels 2, 2.1 and 2.2 and 4, 4.1 and 4.2 these days. Even when broadcast was king, there were some places, like in the mountains, where the TV signal couldn't reach, so cable TV companies started. They would collect the signal and retransmit it to their customers through cables."

Oh God, Leslie thought, if I mention satellite TV, I'll have to talk about the whole space program! Not going there. One history lesson at a time.

"With cable," and satellite, Leslie thought but didn't say, "you could add even more channels. There are about 2,000 channels on my cable service, but I'd have to pay extra to get some of them."

"Two thousand?" Steve asked incredulously.

"Two thousand, but some of them are really just radio stations. Plus, there are a lot of other ways to watch shows these days with streaming and pay services. You can pay for services, like Netflix, and watch their shows on your own schedule. People 'binge' series, watching half a dozen episodes in a row."

"Why?"

"Because they can," Leslie grinned. "Maybe they don't have time to watch a show every Wednesday, but they set aside one Saturday to watch a month's worth."

Leslie heard herself babbling about electronics history that she barely understood. She frowned and interrupted herself. "Is this too much?" she asked. "Am I over-explaining? Because I could just show you what buttons to push to make it work."

She demonstrated with the Blu-ray, which was plugged in but not connected to the TV yet. "You can put in a Blu-ray disk, a DVD or a CD and it will recognize the format automatically." She pushed the eject button, so the carriage slid out, and she showed Steve how the disc fit in. Then she showed the little slot on her computer. "With this kind of player, you just slide the disc in, being very careful to hold it by the edge and NOT put a finger through the center hole, because it will pinch!"

She showed him the arrow symbol for play, the square for stop, the double arrows for fast forward and reverse and the double lines for pause.

"That looks like an 11," Steve commented.

Leslie giggled. "You remind me of one of my favorite bits on America's Funniest Videos. It's a show where people send in home movies of funny happenings, usually people falling down, real Three Stooges slapstick. But this one had a cute little girl learning how to count. When her parents pointed out the numbers, she said 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, pause. Pause instead of 11, because she knew how to work DVD player." Leslie shook her head. "Little kids learn the electronics so quickly. It's part of their lives. People worry about their 'screen time' — time watching TV, playing with computers and all. We try to encourage kids to get more playtime."

"Go play outside," Steve said. "That's what Bucky's ma always told her kids when they were driving her nuts. My ma didn't have to encourage me. I had to spend so much time indoors because I was sick, or the weather was bad, that I was wild to go out whenever I could, and sometimes when I shouldn't." He regarded the tangle of electronics, remembering how Leslie could send messages to people and look up information on her smartphone. "I would have felt less isolated with some of these gadgets to keep me company."

Leslie nodded. "My sister feels the same. We had a hard time making friends in school. I was horribly shy and never seemed interested in all the girly things the other girls liked. I liked books and science fiction. If we'd had the Internet when we were kids, we could have connected with other science fiction nerds and made friends."

"It would have been nice to be able to talk to someone about the books I was reading," Steve said wistfully. "Or to watch a movie at home. This stuff must be a boon to shut-ins."

"It is, but it comes with problems like everything else people create. You can make friends over the Internet, but you can also make enemies. There are people who take pleasure in sending mean messages about other kids, posting ugly pictures and insults. It's called cyber-bullying, and when it's online, everyone can see it. It never goes away. Anything you put online is there forever."

Steve looked deflated. "I had hoped the future would be smarter and kinder," he sighed.

"People are still people, so there are still bullies, but there are also people who try to help."

"People like you," Steve said, making Leslie blush.

"I was thinking, people like you," she returned. "Mutual admiration society."

They grinned at each other. Then Leslie shook her head at herself. "But I ran off on a sidetrack," she said. "Am I over-explaining the history of technology?"

Steve considered it seriously, then shook his head. "No, I like seeing the connection. It helps me to understand how everything grew from my time to yours. Can you 'stream' television like you do radio?" Steve asked.

Leslie was pleased with his intelligent question. He might be behind the times, but he wasn't dumb.

"Yes, you can get live TV over the computer. For instance, I pay for MLB TV, so I can watch baseball games from teams that aren't local. They show all 'out of market' games."

Steve frowned, "But you said you were a Dodgers fan. Isn't that a local team?"

Leslie sighed. "Yeah, about that ..."

* * *

 _A/N: Poor Steve, he's in for a shock._

 _Not such a brief history, after all. Sorry if this got too "educational." And it's really only a 60-year-old's perception of history, at that, so don't count on the info for your history final._

 _On the plus side, I got inspired to make a start on a Reconstruction story. If I can just find some time to get ahead on my writing. Never seems to work out._


	12. Hometown Team

**Hometown Team**

"Los Angeles!"

It was a cry from the heart that made Leslie cringe.

She told him the Dodgers moved in 1957. "They've been my hometown team for all my life."

Tears started pouring from Steve's eyes. "No, no. It's too much. Not the Dodgers, too!"

Leslie stopped talking and just put her arms around him and let him cry.

Finally, he ran down and stiffened. Leslie let him go immediately.

He sat up straight and wiped his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Steve said. "I'm being stupid. It's just a baseball team."

"Don't apologize," Leslie said, draping her arm over Steve's shoulders and pulling him to her side. It wasn't comfortable for her, because he was so much taller, but she didn't mind when he seemed to find comfort in it. He put his head on her shoulder and blinked away his tears. "I understand," Leslie continued. "This is the last straw. Tell Aunt Leslie what you're feeling. Please."

"I thought ... I saw baseball on the TV and I thought here was something that hadn't changed. Something I could count on. I should have known better," he said almost angrily.

"You should have," Leslie agreed. "Nothing stays exactly the same. Oatmeal is still available in a cardboard cylinder, but the logo isn't the same. Coke is still sold, but they make it with corn syrup instead of cane sugar. The Dodgers still play, but now they play in L.A. Today you can watch baseball on TV when you can't get to the game. You will see black players and players from other countries playing alongside men from Texas and Iowa. You can still buy hotdogs and Crackerjack and beer at games, but also caramel macchiatos, nachos and goat cheese pizza."

"Goat cheese, really?" Steve raised his eyebrows. "Goat milk was for people who couldn't afford to keep cows."

"Now it's trendy," Leslie assured him. "I can't stand it. Leaves a nasty aftertaste in my mouth, but lots of people love it. Anyway, as I was saying, baseball has changed, but it's still a wooden bat smacking against a ball and runners sliding under a tag and the crowd leaping up cheering. You can still recognize it."

Steve mulled over what she said. "What about women? You said Negroes and people from other countries, what about women? Do they still play baseball?"

"Not in the Big Leagues. Not professionally," Leslie said. "The Women's Baseball League was a wartime thing that faded away when the men came home. There's a great movie about it called 'A League of Their Own.' We'll watch it," she promised. "But let's get back to the Dodgers. Really, a history of the Dodgers is a history of postwar America."

She fiddled with her smartphone for a moment. "I know the outline, but I can never remember the dates," she explained. "So you know the Dodgers went to the World Series in '41."

"And lost to the damned Yankees," Steve grumbled.

Leslie nodded. "Well, the Dodgers were a powerhouse after the war. They won the pennant again in '47, '49, '52 and '53."

Steve brightened at the thought.

"And they lost the World Series each time," Leslie said. "To the Yankees — each time."

Steve groaned and let his head fall to the back of the couch.

"1951 was their most embarrassing year," Leslie said. "In August, Brooklyn led the league by 13 1/2 games over the Giants."

Steve's lip curled at the mention of the Dodgers' hated crosstown rivals, the New York Giants.

"But the Dodgers went on a crashing losing streak while the Giants went on an amazing winning streak. They ended the season in a tie and went to a three-game playoff. In the third and deciding game, the Dodgers had a 4-2 lead in the bottom of the ninth, when Giants outfielder Bobby Thomson came up against pitcher Ralph Branca."

Leslie hit play on her phone and Steve heard the fateful call of Thomson's three-run, walk-off home run. "The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!" the announcer exulted.

Steve groaned, imagining listening to the game on the radio in the apartment he and Bucky shared.

"They call that home run, 'The Shot Heard 'Round the World'," Leslie said.

"Are you trying to make me glad the Dodgers left Brooklyn?" Steve asked.

Leslie laughed at him. "No, the Brooklyn Dodgers were a great team, and I don't just mean on the field. In 1947, the owner, Branch Rickey, hired the first African-American player in the major leagues, a second baseman named Jackie Robinson."

Steve leaned forward in interest. "Brave thing of Rickey to do," he said. "People were so bigoted, anti-anyone who was different, whether they were Negros or Chinese or Irish. Gabe and Jim took so much shit. I took so much shit for having them in my unit, as if it mattered," he said scornfully. "And Bucky and I went to a lot of Negro League games. Those boys could play," he said in remembered appreciation.

"We don't call blacks 'boys,' any more. It's considered demeaning," Leslie corrected gently. "And the preferred term is 'black' or 'African American,' not 'colored' or 'Negro' or any ruder word. Though the Negro Leagues are still called the Negro Leagues," Leslie said.

Steve looked down his nose at her in mock offense. "I didn't call them 'boys' because they were N ... black. I called them 'boys' because they were baseball players," he said.

"Point," Leslie agreed.

"So, tell me more about Robinson," Steve said.

"Rickey wasn't entirely altruistic trying to break baseball's color barrier," Leslie said. "He knew Jackie on the field would bring black spectators to the ballpark. But he didn't want to chase other spectators away, either. He carefully chose his candidate. He wanted someone who could be patient in the face of the racist attacks they both knew would come. Jackie proved himself on the field and was an amazing base stealer. One radio clip I've heard called him 'the Dodgers speed merchant.' I like that one. He was the first Rookie of the Year in baseball and the award is named after him. In 1997, on the 50th anniversary of his first game, Major League Baseball retired his jersey number, 42, all across baseball. Players who already wore it could continue, but no new players would be issued that number. And a few years later, baseball started Jackie Robinson Day. Every player across baseball wears Number 42 in recognition of his and the Dodgers' impact on the game. Everyone remembers the Brooklyn Dodgers, because it was — it still is — an awesome organization," Leslie said earnestly. She took a deep breath, then went back to her history lesson.

"So, Jackie was a key player in those successful years of the late '40s and early '50s. But by 1955, the 'Boys of Summer,' the core of the Dodgers was beginning to age," Leslie said, reading directly from her phone. "But they weren't done yet."

* * *

As the unofficial historian for a secret agency, Leslie loved documentaries. She had amassed a number of Dodger documentaries. She mentally debated whether to put in the DVD of the 1955 World Series, but instead chose a DVD "1955, Seven Days of Fall," which explored the whole Brooklyn Dodgers 1955 phenomenon. She could show Steve the official World Series DVD later.

As the one-hour program played, she busied herself fetching Dodger related items from her rolling suitcase, things she had picked up on a quick trip to her apartment after Maria Hill called her.

One was a Brooklyn Dodgers cap, way too big for her child-sized head. Seriously, she had to buy a youth size bicycle helmet! She showed Steve the Brooklyn "B" then slipped it on his head without interrupting the flow of the story. He gave her a grateful look, and returned his attention to the show.

Since it was almost lunchtime, Leslie decided to introduce Steve to another cultural icon and called her favorite pizza place. She ordered three large pizzas in different flavors.

"Would you like an order of volcano wings to go with that?" the pizza guy asked. He explained it was a promotion. Buy three large pizzas and get an order of wings, free.

Leslie hesitated, because she didn't like super spicy food, but this was a cultural phenomenon, too.

"Can I get them plain, with volcano sauce and honey barbecue sauce on the side?"

"Hmm, the volcano sauce might eat through the Styrofoam," the kid joked. "I'll make sure you get plain wings, Ms. Reynolds. Deliver to the usual address?"

Oh, Leslie hadn't thought about that. "No, I'm visiting a friend." She gave Steve's address. "You'll have to leave it with the concierge."

"Sure, we've been there before," the kid assured her, and took her credit card number. Leslie added an extra dollar tip, because he'd been so helpful.

The food hadn't arrived when the video ended. Steve wiped tears of joy from his eyes. "Wish I'd been there," he said wistfully, then sighed. "But it wouldn't have been the same without Buck."

Leslie patted his arm. Honestly, she was addicted to having a good reason to touch his muscles.

"I can't believe they left Brooklyn after that," Steve complained.

"They played one more year in Brooklyn," Leslie said. "The new owner Walter O'Malley wanted to build a new stadium in Brooklyn. Ebbets Field was falling apart. But O'Malley couldn't get cooperation from the city of New York. They tried to force him to move the team to Flushing Meadows."

"Queens!" Steve said in horror.

Leslie chuckled. "Queens," she agreed. "If O'Malley had done that, it still wouldn't have been the 'Brooklyn' Dodgers," she pointed out. "The city wanted a city-owned ballpark, but O'Malley was a real estate mogul. He wanted to own the land. When he couldn't come to an agreement with the city, he contacted Los Angeles, which had been angling for a team."

"But, all the way on the West Coast?" Steve said doubtfully. "It'd take days to get there."

"By that time, there were nonstop transcontinental airlines," Leslie said. "Teams weren't limited to train travel, so the distance didn't matter as much."

Steve remembered air travel with thundering propellers. He remembered jumping out of a plane into enemy territory. He could imagine airplanes getting faster and faster, especially if Howard Stark had anything to do with it. He nodded understanding.

"The owner of the Giants was having the same trouble finding a new home for the team, because the Polo Grounds were out of date. O'Malley persuaded him to move the team to San Francisco, so the Giants and the Dodgers have maintained their rivalry on the West Coast."

"And Los Angeles had enough people to support a baseball team?" Steve asked. He remembered it as a small city surrounded by orchards and farmland.

Leslie checked stats on her phone.

"By 1950, Los Angeles was the fourth largest city in the U.S., after New York, Chicago and Philadelphia. By 1960, it was third, with nearly two and a half million people. L.A. continued to grow in the postwar era," Leslie said. "Lots of servicemen had been stationed on the West Coast during the war. Lots of people moved west to build planes and ships. They liked it and they stayed or moved back when the war ended. The orange groves and bean fields gave way to housing tracts. I remember L.A. as wall-to-wall suburbs by the time I was old enough to pay attention."

"How big is it now?" Steve asked curiously.

"About 3.8 million in the city, but things are different when you consider the whole metropolitan area," Leslie answered. "There's about 13 million in the whole L.A.-Orange County area. About 20 million in the New York-Newark area."

"That's a lot of people," Steve said, trying to imagine it. It helped that he came from New York, the biggest city in the U.S. since the first census. There'd been nearly 6 million people in New York City when he was a child in the 1920s.

"A lot of people," Leslie agreed.

* * *

 _A/N: A lame ending, but I wanted to get something out for you. I spent my typing time last weekend decorating for Halloween, making a costume and carving a pumpkin. The pumpkin earned me a prize of a movie gift card, just enough to buy two tickets to "Thor: Ragnarok." That'll be next weekend. This weekend I have to clean up all the stuff from Halloween. *Sigh* And, also *sigh*, Dodgers didn't win the World Series, but they were awesome games._


	13. Wings and a Prayer

**Wings and a Prayer**

Steve vigorously shook the dark thoughts from his head. "It's hard to believe the Dodgers left Brooklyn," he said plaintively.

"Politics," Leslie shrugged. "The fans blamed O'Malley, of course. There was a joke. If you gave a Brooklyn fan a gun with two bullets and put him in a room with O'Malley, Hitler and Stalin, who would he shoot? O'Malley, twice."

Steve snorted.

"Not everybody in L.A. supported the move, either. My dad was never a fan. He thought there was political hanky-panky getting the property at Chavez Ravine to build Dodger Stadium. But for the most part, the Dodgers move was validation of Los Angeles as a major city. The mayor said, 'Now we're Big League in every way.'"

* * *

Leslie's phone buzzed. The man at the front desk reported that Carlos was on his way up with the pizzas.

Steve fetched the stack of boxes from the concierge and spread them out on the kitchen counter, opening each box to find classic pepperoni, even more classic pizza margherita with basil and mozzarella, and a possibly subversive Hawaiian pizza with ham and pineapple.

There was another container about the size of a shoebox that Steve opened curiously to find ...

"Chicken wings?" He looked askance at Leslie. "Ma usually put them in the soup pot." Then he tipped his head thoughtfully. "Sometimes the deli where Bucky worked gave him the wings and other scraps. We did get a little meat off them," he allowed.

"They're a thing now," Leslie said. "The story is, a restaurant owner's son and some friends asked for snack after hours. The mom had a bunch of leftover chicken wings, so she friend them and tossed them with butter and hot sauce, then served them with blue cheese dressing for dipping. Word got around. People started asking for them and then every bar had to serve them. They're called Buffalo wings, because the restaurant was in Buffalo. At first they were made with Tabasco or something like it, but lately they've been getting hotter and hotter. People keep finding newer, hotter chili peppers and making crazy hot sauces. At the moment, the Naga Viper is the hottest chili pepper I've heard of."

Leslie read the warning that came with the Volcano Sauce. Yes, it was so hot it came with a warning!

"This sauce is made with ghost peppers, habaneros and jalapenos. I wouldn't touch it with a 10-foot pole," Leslie said honestly. "Jalapenos are the mildest of those three, and that's about as hot as I like. That's why I got them to make us plain wings and send the sauce separately. If you don't like it, we can just use the honey barbecue sauce."

Steve took the lid off the Volcano Sauce. His eyes began to water immediately. He turned his head away. "Why do people eat this?" he asked.

"It burns the throat. It makes them sweat and makes their eyes water. It could upset your stomach," Leslie said. "But people say it gives them a rush. It pumps up their endorphins, the hormones that the body puts out to fight pain. They make you feel good. As good as sex, some people say," she added dryly.

"Is it polite to eat them in mixed company?" Steve joked.

"I'll survive," Leslie answered. She got out a glass of milk. "Dairy products are the best thing to kill the burn," she said. "Do you want to try the hot sauce? I don't mind if you don't. This is a judgment free zone."

"I'm always willing to try new foods," Steve said bravely, though he still side-eyed the screaming red sauce, because the fumes were making his eyes water from arm's length.

Leslie put two wings and a teaspoon of sauce in a plastic bag and shook them up to coat the wings. "That's more like the way they're usually served, and less sauce than dipping."

Holding his breath because of the fumes, Steve bit into a Volcano wing. The reaction was instantaneous. His face went tomato red, sweat beaded on his face and tears poured from his eyes. His lips began to swell. He dropped the wing on the table and grabbed for the milk.

Leslie ran to the refrigerator and pulled out the first yogurt container she could find, thinking that would soothe his lips — though she couldn't imagine how Key Lime would taste with Volcano sauce.

The reaction had flared up like a cartoon character's, and subsided just as quickly. Before she could open the yogurt, Steve's color had faded to sweaty pink and his lips had returned to normal. Tear tracks marked his cheeks, but his eyes no longer streamed.

"OK," he said hoarsely. "I didn't like that."

"No, that was scary," Leslie said, shaken. "You looked like ... you looked like the Red Skull," she realized.

Steve shuddered at the thought. "That was like an allergic reaction," he said. He'd had enough of them in his younger days.

"Yes, your body rejected it. I guess your super senses are super sensitive to peppers. Was there any good feeling afterward? Any mild euphoria?"

Steve made a face. "Not that I noticed. Alcohol and drugs don't work on me any more. If there was any 'rush,' it was too brief to feel it."

"We'll count this experiment a failure," Leslie agreed. She carefully closed the baggie and dropped the remaining Volcano wing in the trash. "Are you willing to try another, less potent version?"

"What did you have in mind?" Even when he was undersized, Steve Rogers had always been up for a challenge. And his healing factor had brought him almost back to normal.

Leslie melted some butter in the microwave, then put it in another bag with Tabasco sauce, a shake of garlic powder and a shake of Worcestershire sauce. She shook up two wings and took one herself.

"Without looking up a recipe, this is closer to 'Buffalo' wings," she said. She nibbled off the meat, then took a swallow of milk. "I still don't like the burn, but this is edible."

Emboldened by her example, Steve tried the wing and pronounced it good. "I would eat these if someone served them, but I wouldn't order them," he decided.

With the wing experiment out of the way, they dove into the pizzas. Leslie took one slice of pepperoni and one of margherita and left the rest for Steve. He wasn't sure about pineapple on pizza, but ate half the pie anyway, then half of each of the others, saving pepperoni for the last bite. The two also finished off the order of wings, using the honey barbecue sauce, which Steve was enthusiastic about.

"When I was on the USO tour, we went to a lot of barbecue places across the country. All the sauces were different, but I liked them all."

"These days you'll have to keep an eye out for the hot sauces, but there's plenty to choose from after that," Leslie said.

While they ate, they watched the official MLB DVD of the 1955 World Series. Leslie thought Steve deserved a reward after the wings fiasco.

He enjoyed again watching Brooklyn win the World Series for the first and only time. When it was done, he asked for more information about the Los Angeles team.

"The Dodgers played their first games at the Los Angeles Coliseum, while Dodger Stadium was being built," Leslie said.

"Where the Olympics were held?" Steve asked.

Leslie agreed. "The Olympics have been played there twice, in 1932, the one that you remember, and in 1984. I went to those opening ceremonies. Anyway, though it was an odd shape for playing baseball, the Dodgers made it work. They played there with some success, winning the World Series in 1959 — against the White Sox. No Yankees that year."

Steve cheered derisively.

"Dodgers Stadium was completed in time for Opening Day 1962. It is now the third oldest stadium in the major leagues after Fenway Park and Wrigley Field."

"Not Yankee Stadium?" Steve was shocked. And he didn't even like the Yankees.

"No, they tore down the House that Ruth Built three years ago and built the New Yankee Stadium in basically the same place. Sometimes they call it the House that Jeter Built. He's an amazing Yankees player."

"Huh. No Yankee Stadium. That's another thing I wouldn't have expected. So, go on. Have the Los Angeles Dodgers been any good?" The name "Los Angeles Dodgers" stuck on Steve's tongue like peanut butter.

"They won the World Series the second year they were in Los Angeles," Leslie said. "Which you could say was a carryover from the great Brooklyn team. The Dodgers won a bunch of pennants in the 1960s and won the 1963 and '65 Series. The '65 series was interesting. Game one fell on Yom Kippur and the Dodgers ace pitcher Sandy Koufax, whois Jewish, declined to play. The Dodgers lost the first two games, but rebounded and Koufaz pitched shutouts in games 5 and 7 — with only two days rest between. He was named the World Series MVP. At his peak, Sandy was almost unhittable. There were jokes about batters complaining to the umpire, 'that pitch sounded high.' And one story said a batter started out of the dugout and told his teammate, 'Back in a minute.'"

Steve chuckled.

"Sadly, Koufax had to retire young because of arthritis in his elbow. Then the team floundered for a few years until a new crowd of young players came up from the farm system and 23-year manager Walter Alston gave way to larger-than-life Tommy Lasorda, who's still the Dodgers biggest booster. He had a saying, 'I bleed Dodger blue.'"

Leslie told Steve the Dodgers went to the World Series three times in the '60s, winning twice. They went three times in the 1970s, and lost all three.

"Then they went to the World Series twice in the 1980s and won both times," Leslie said. "That 1981 team, that's when I started following them. I went home for a while after I got out of the army and everyone seemed to have Dodger fever. I caught it then and never recovered," she joked. "Those young players that were coming up in the '70s became the longest running infield in baseball. Four guys, Garvey, Lopes, Russell and Cey playing together for more than eight years. And never won a World Series — until 1981. After a kind of crazy season, broken in half by a players' strike, the Dodgers won a ninth-inning thriller against the Montreal Expos to win the National League Championship."

"Montreal? Canada?" Steve said in surprise.

"Yes, we've had two Canadian teams. The Blue Jays still play in Toronto, but the Expos moved to Washington D.C. and changed their name to the Nationals," Leslie explained.

"Not the Senators?" Steve asked.

"No, maybe they thought that name was unlucky. There have been two different teams by that name and both left D.C."

"Actually, the Senators were named the Nationals in my day, but everyone called them the Senators," Steve said.

"I didn't know that," Leslie said.

Steve remembered something Leslie had said earlier. "And what did you mean by National League Championship?"

"Right. I said that baseball hasn't changed," Leslie said. "Well, the rules and the play are basically the same. You won't have any trouble following the game, but the game has gotten bigger. How many teams played before the war?"

"Sixteen teams, eight in each league," Steve said promptly.

"Now there are 30 teams, 15 in each league." If asked, Leslie would have admitted that she'd had to look up all these stats and dates. But Steve didn't ask. "Some teams have moved and there have been several rounds of expansion and I can't name all the teams," she said frankly, "But they're spread clear across the country with teams in California, Washington (state and D.C.), Colorado, Arizona, Florida, Texas, Georgia, as well as your familiar East Coast and Midwest cities. I do know the 1960s brought the National League back to New York when the Mets were formed. The colors of the new team were Dodger blue and Giants orange, to pay tribute to the past."

Steve gave a tiny smile.

"With all those teams, they went to a playoff system. In 1969, they split the two leagues into East and West divisions. The top teams in the divisions played for the league championship and then the winner went to the World Series, which was and is still National League vs. American League. In 1995, they went to three divisions, adding a Central Division to each league and adding a wildcard team — the best team of the non-winners, to make another round of playoffs."

"Sounds confusing," Steve said, scratching his head.

"It makes it pretty exciting when there are several teams within striking distance of a playoff berth," Leslie said. "With that in mind, the Dodgers have been to the playoffs several times without winning the National League. They've won the west four times and the wildcard twice since the 1990s, but they haven't been to the World Series since 1988." Leslie grinned. "That was my dream year. The first and only time I've followed the Dodgers from Opening Day clear to the World Series. And along the way I saw a great pitcher Orel Hershiser set a record for consecutive scoreless innings that stands to today. And I saw the most amazing World Series win against the heavily favored Oakland A's."

"A's?"

"Athletics, but no one calls them that. Just like no one calls the Mets the Metropolitans and everyone called your Washington Nationals the Senators." She shrugged. "It's baseball! Anyway, let me tell you about the 1988 World Series. One at bat changed the whole series." She shook her head in remembered wonder. "And it was only the first game! Let me tell you about what's been voted the most memorable moment in L.A. sports history — Kirk Gibson's home run. The Dodger outfielder was new to the team that year, coming from the Detroit Tigers, where he'd won a Series. He was a fiery competitor and he got the team fired up. But he got hurt during the playoffs and was limping on two bad knees. He didn't start the game, but he came up in the bottom of the ninth, two outs, one run down, one man on base. Facing one of the most dominant relief pitchers in the game, Gibson fouled off pitch after pitch and, finally, miraculously, hit a two-run home run for a come from behind win. And he hobbled around the bases pumping his fist while one announcer said, 'I don't believe what I just saw!' and Vin Scully, the voice of the Dodgers, said, "In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened.' That Hollywood ending took the wind out of the sails of the A's. Then Hershiser pitched a shut out the next day and, well, the A's only won one game in the Series. '88 was a great year," Leslie reminisced.

"But they haven't been back to the World Series since?"

"No," Leslie said sadly.

"That's 24 years," Steve said. He began to smile. "Maybe I can support this Los Angeles team. It took 70 years for Brooklyn to win a World Series."

"Oh, well if you like futility, the Cubs still haven't won a World Series. It's been 100 years," Leslie teased.

"Root for Chicago? That would be worse than rooting for Los Angeles. At least the L.A. team is called the Dodgers," Steve protested.

"That's the spirit," Leslie said and she pulled out her DVD of the 1988 World Series, so Steve could see what he'd missed.

* * *

 _A/N: Remember, this is 2012. Since then the Cubs won the World Series in 2016 and the Dodgers went back, but lost, this year. I'll try to move on to something besides baseball next time. This may be choppy because I don't have time to reread it. On my way to see Thor in 5 minutes._


	14. Designated Hitter

_A/N: Apparently I lied about no more baseball._

* * *

 **Designated Hitter**

Steve snacked on the remaining pizza while they watched "Through the Eyes of a Winner," a DVD about the Dodgers 1988 season. Leslie had original owned the Beta tape, but when it looked like it would be impossible to watch Beta any more, a friend at work had transferred it to the up-and-coming DVD format.

Steve snacked on apples and the remaining pizza, while they watched the documentary unfold. They had to pause it every so often for lessons on reheating pizza.

Steve decided he'd rather eat it cold than floppy from being microwaved. The toaster oven worked well for up to two pieces, but Steve had a little more than a full pie's worth of leftovers. The sensible thing was to put it all in the oven at a low temperature, so Steve could fetch a couple of slices whenever he wanted.

Leslie munched on apple slices, glad to see Steve eating as much as he wanted, while learning how more kitchen appliances worked.

When he got down to the last two slices, Steve hesitated and asked if Leslie wanted to save them for herself.

"Take them if you want to," she assured him. "We have dinner in the slow cooker and plenty to cook for tomorrow. If you don't want them, we can save them. But if you do, eat them up and turn off the oven."

Steve set the last slices on a plate with another apple, turned off the oven carefully and came back to the couch.

He had to admit he was enjoying watching the Dodgers' winning season, even if their shirts read "Los Angeles" instead of "Brooklyn."

He was amazed by Hershiser's scoreless innings streak and he cheered for Mickey Hatcher's "stuntmen," the back up players who filled in brilliantly when injuries took out starting players. After seeing the ups and downs of the season, Steve better appreciated the impact of Gibson's home run in the first game of the World Series and was unsurprised by Hershiser shutting out the A's in the second game.

But he frowned when the narrative got to the third game. He picked up the remote and hit pause, just like any modern armchair quarterback. Leslie was so proud.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing at the lineup listed onscreen. "DH, what's that?"

"Oh, right. In the 1970s, the American League instituted the designated hitter rule. The DH doesn't play defense, he only bats in place of a lesser hitter, usually the pitcher who, after all, only gets to play one game out of four."

Steve was open-mouthed in outrage. "But then they're not full ballplayers, they're just half ballplayers."

"You're preaching to the choir, Rogers. That's a main point of contention between American League fans and National League fans. They say it makes the game more exciting. There are more hits and more runs. NL fans like the maneuvering the managers have to do, deciding when to take a pitcher out and when to make a double switch. Personally, there's nothing more exciting than an intentional walk to get to the pitcher, who then whacks the ball into centerfield for a run-scoring double." Leslie pointed at the screen. "When you get a series like this, with NL vs. AL, you play by the home team's rules. So the first two games in the '88 Series, National League rules. Now that they've gone to Oakland, they bring up the designated hitters."

"Huh," Steve said, trying to wrap his mind around the change. Then he caught up with Leslie's wording. "Wait, you said in a series like this. Isn't there just the World Series? Or are you talking about spring training?"

"Yes, spring training, but also we have something called interleague play now. For about 15 years." She looked it up. "Since 1997. It gives fans a chance to see teams they don't usually see. I'm on the fence about it, but as long as all the teams in a division see the same teams in the other league, it seems to be fair."

"Do they play all the teams in the other league?" Steve asked, because that seemed like a lot of games.

"No, just one division each year. Like, the National League West vs. the American League West. That's five teams."

"So, ten series, at home and away?" Steve guessed.

"Right. Oh, and one more thing about the DH. It helps extend the careers of some players. When they get too old or banged up to play the outfield, they can DH. In the NL, they can only pinch hit once per game, but as DH they can hit several times a game," Leslie said to be fair. "There are some excellent NL players who've spent their declining years in the AL."

"I understand," Steve said. "What other big changes have there been?"

"That's all I can think of at the moment," Leslie said. "When we watch the live game, if you see anything you don't understand, you can ask me questions."

"I'd hate to interrupt," Steve said considerately.

Leslie nodded. "Then keep your notebook handy and I'll answer questions after the game."

Steve immediately got out his notebook and a couple of pencils, so he wouldn't forget.

What with pauses for snacks or bathroom breaks or Q&A, it was after 5 p.m. when they finished the DVD. Steve had become confident with the remote control, pausing, rewinding, muting and all.

Baseball had proven to be a good visual aid to teach a little history and a little technology, without overwhelming the pupil. Leslie metaphorically patted herself on the back.

* * *

Leslie showered while Steve set the table, then they dished up the slow cooker stew. Steve ate like he hadn't eaten all week, despite the three pizzas he'd consumed. He seemed to realize it when Leslie offered him seconds.

"I'm sorry I'm being such a pig today," he said. "I don't usually eat this much. I mean, I never had this much available to eat at one time, but I've never wanted to eat this much before."

"You're not being a pig," Leslie corrected. "You look to be thinner than you ought to be. I can check with medical, but I'll bet you were underweight. The trauma of being frozen and of being thawed. I can't imagine they could feed you the calories you needed while you were unconscious, no matter how many IVs they stuck you with. You eat as much as you want. If you want more than this, I can cook you a steak or make you a Dagwood sandwich."

Steve chuckled at the notion of a two-foot tall sandwich with everything on it. "I don't know how anybody would eat one of those," he said.

"And yet, people try," Leslie said dryly. "I've got to find you some pictures of giant sandwiches. You'd be a winner at some of the eating contests around — as long as they don't involve hot wings."

Steve shuddered at the idea, then took the last helping of stew when Leslie assured him she was full.

"Are you going to want more?" she asked.

"Maybe some dessert," he said.

They had about an hour until the game was due to start. Leslie decided to fit in another cooking lesson. While Steve washed the slow cooker and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Leslie got out the brownie mix, eggs and vegetable oil. She put them in the bowl of the bright red stand mixer. (She'd have thought someone was making a patriotic statement for Captain America, but red kitchen appliances were the "in" thing.)

"I'd make cookies from scratch, but I don't want to miss the start of the game," she confessed. "Now, I want you to do this yourself."

She instructed Steve how to work the mixer. He started it too fast, and a spray of brown flour flew out, but not too much. He adjusted the speed and mixed the batter until everything was incorporated.

"Not too long, or the brownie will be tough. A few lumps are OK in this."

Steve sprayed Pam in the baking dish, then filled it with batter, spreading everything neatly and put it in the preheated oven to bake. Then he set a timer based on the box instructions.

"Bravo!" Leslie said.

Steve bowed.

They turned on the Dodger pregame. Steve listened intently, so he could better understand this team and the importance of the matchup — though in April the season was just getting started.

The brownies were done just before the first pitch and the two spectators happily nibbled on chocolaty goodness during the game. Leslie was happy that Steve got to see Clayton Kershaw pitch. The Dodgers young phenom was signed to a new contract in February, and Leslie hoped he would have a long career with the team. She was also happy to see her favorite player Andre Ethier get three hits, including a home run in the Dodgers win over the Phillies.

Out of the corner of her eye, Leslie could see Steve taking notes periodically, usually during commercials, but he didn't ask anything complicated, just the normal spectator questions about past performance and expected outcomes. "Think he'll hit it out?"

"I always think Andre will hit it out," Leslie joked. And then he did, and she cheered like a madwoman.

Sometimes Steve crossed out something he'd written. Leslie assumed the context had answered his question.

Dodgers held off a late charge from the Phillies and when closer Kenley Jansen came in, Leslie was satisfied that Steve had seen a typical good game from her favorite team.

"Think you can stand to root for an L.A. team?" she teased.

"I'll think about it," Steve teased her back.

"So, I saw you taking notes. Hit me."

"There was one of the commercials I didn't understand what they were talking about," he said hesitantly.

Please don't be Viagra, Leslie prayed silently. Please don't be Viagra."

"Can you tell me what satellite TV is?"

For one second, Leslie was happy he hadn't asked about medical stuff, then her heat sank. Now she had to describe the space program! And you can't talk about the space program without describing the Cold War. Leslie managed to not groan out loud, but her dismay was plain on her face.

Steve apologized instantly.

"No, you're right to ask questions, and this leads to an important topic," Leslie said firmly. "But can we do it tomorrow? It's 10:30," she finished plaintively.

Steve agreed. They cleaned up and went to bed.

* * *

Four hours later, Steve awoke in a silent sweat. For him, it had been mere days since he'd been sleeping in enemy territory. He focused on that mindset again, so he wouldn't make noise and wake Leslie again. He felt a little ashamed to think of this time as enemy territory, but it worked.

The dream hadn't been bad at all. He'd been standing at the altar, Bucky by his side, with his ma and the Barnes family in the front pew. Peggy had walked down the aisle on Col. Phillips' arm. As she reached his side, she smiled brightly — and then Steve woke up.

The glaring numbers on the digital clock were enough to tell him where and when he was. His disappointment was sharp, stabbing him fiercely. He lay back fighting tears. He really wished he had something to punch.

* * *

Three hours later, Leslie woke to the smell of fresh baked bread.

* * *

 _A/N: I have that DVD in_ _Beta_ _format. *Sigh* If you're a baseball fan, you might be thinking about instant replay, but baseball didn't start that until 2014, so Leslie doesn't have to explain it. The game is made up. The players were on the 2012 Dodgers._

 _We really, truly will go onto other things next time. Leslie needs to find a punching bag for Steve._


	15. Punching Something

**Punching Something**

The fresh baked bread smelled delicious, but Leslie suspected this was not a good thing. She quickly got dressed and went to the kitchen, where she found two loaves cooling on the counter.

"That smells delicious," she said to Steve who was sitting at the table, clutching a heavy mug of coffee as if it was trying to escape. Leslie was proud he'd managed the coffeemaker, but she didn't mention it because he looked so tense. "You get up early?" Leslie asked gently.

"Couldn't sleep," he answered tersely.

"Nightmares?"

"Not exactly." Steve rubbed his eyes. "Just might-have-beens that never will be."

Leslie nodded understanding and patted his arm. "Why did you make bread?"

"I didn't want to wake you up, but I really needed to punch something," he said with restrained ferocity. "I remembered making bread with my ma …"

"Kneading is good therapy," Leslie agreed, though actually, she'd only made bread once or twice. "I'm sorry you had trouble sleeping, but we will benefit from your hard work."

Leslie got a serrated knife and cut two slices of the crusty bread. She spread the slices with butter and ceremonially handed one to Steve. They simultaneously bit down on the delicious, yeasty-smelling slices.

Leslie tried, she really tried, but the bread was tough and chewy. She barely swallowed her mouthful and her arthritic jaw hurt so much she didn't dare try to chew another.

Steve's enhanced jaws powered through the slice, but he sighed when he was done. "I spoiled it," he said regretfully.

"I think you overworked it," Leslie agreed. She'd read that it's really hard to overwork bread, because most people get tired before they reach that point, but Steve is a Super Soldier and sometimes doesn't remember his own strength.

"I haven't baked bread since this," he said, gesturing at his muscular body. "I'm sorry I wasted all this food."

Leslie would have told him it didn't matter, but she knew that wouldn't make him feel better.

"We'll find a way to use it," she said encouragingly. "We can toast it or make croutons out of it. We can soak it in gravy. Ooh, we can grind it up and use it as a thickener in soup or chili. Mmm, chili, that sounds like a good idea," she said.

"Not that spicy stuff," Steve said warily.

"No, this is a spiced meat and/or bean dish. It gets spices from chili peppers, but I don't make it super spicy. Don't worry, we won't waste your bread," she reassured her friend.

Steve looked a little happier as he thanked her.

"But I guess we need to find you a place to exercise," Leslie continued.

"Yes, please."

"We'll talk to Carlos after breakfast," Leslie decided. She wasn't heartbroken to delay the discussion of the space program and the Cold War. "And we'll prowl the streets. I kept you cooped up too long yesterday."

"I'd appreciate stretching my legs, but don't think I've forgotten about satellite TV," Steve warned.

Leslie snapped her fingers. "Rats! Curse your super memory," she said dramatically.

Steve laughed and gave his first real smile of the morning. Leslie counted it as a win.

* * *

They fixed a big breakfast for Steve and a small one for Leslie. Sliced thin and toasted, the bread was palatable. Another win. Steve finished most of the first loaf. Leslie wasn't sure whether he really enjoyed it or he just wanted to dispose of his mistake. Either way, he looked happier when most of it was gone.

* * *

Downstairs, they consulted with Carlos the concierge. He offered three suggestions of places that were vetted by SHIELD, including a local college where the track was available to the public starting at dawn.

"And we have a gym in the basement here," Carlos suggested. "It's good for middle-of-the-night workouts."

"That would be perfect," Steve said, sounding relieved. He was still worried about going out alone. He'd only been in this time for two days. He wasn't worried about getting lost, but more about getting Leslie in trouble if he got himself noticed.

They went down to the gym to check it out. Carlos set up palm print access for the two of them. Inside was a wide array of gleaming equipment with screens and buttons — stair steppers and exercise cycles and rowing machines — not that Steve knew what any of those were. He visibly shied away from all the fancy stuff, but his eye was caught by a punching bag hanging in the middle of the room, a hefty heavy bag just like the boxing club back in the old neighborhood. He smiled. This he understood.

Carlos showed him where the accessories were and Steve wrapped his hands. He paused. "You don't mind?" he asked Leslie.

"Take off your shirt and I won't mind at all," Leslie countered with a friendly leer.

Steve chuckled. A younger woman saying such a thing would have embarrassed him, but Leslie was already like the aunt he'd never had. Steve unbuttoned and removed his shirt, leaving just an undershirt.

"Yeah," Carlos breathed. Leslie just smiled.

Steve made a face at both of them, then stepped up to the bag. The spectators stood back, sitting on a bench against the wall near the door.

Steve punched experimentally, getting a feel for the bag, concentrating to stay within himself. As he settled into a rhythm, his mind began to drift, back to Bucky and his father trying to teach him to punch, back to Peggy demonstrating the right technique when he was still a little guy.

Lost in the old days, Steve struck out with all his strength, just like Peggy had taught him.

The chain snapped, the bag flew across the room to smash into an exercise cycle, then fell to the floor, leaking sand from a mortal wound. The cycle crashed into the wall and rebounded to fall on its side, computer screen cracking and sparking.

Carlos rushed to unplug it, while Steve stood, arms hanging, mortified.

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "That looks expensive."

"It was," Carlos said with breathless amazement. When the powerful Super Soldier seemed to shrink in on himself, the concierge recalled his professional manners. "Fortunately, it's paid for," he said briskly. "Captain, you are not the first agent to wreck this place. It's been allowed for."

He tugged Steve to a weight machine by the wall near the door and pointed to a couple of dents on the steel frame.

"Are those bullet marks?"

"Yes." He gestured in a line up the all and Steve's enhanced vision could see where bullet holes had been repaired and painted over. "This facility is for intelligence agents. One of our visitors was here recuperating after an operation that went sour. He was captured and tortured before being rescued. He was working on the stair climber there, when I carried in some fresh towels. He didn't hear me, but he saw a reflection and started shooting. Fortunately, his hands had been injured by the torture, so his aim wasn't up to par, but he blasted two machines and the wall before he realized where he was."

"I hope he apologized," Leslie said.

"He did, and he stopped wearing earbuds while he worked out — and we turned the stair climber to face the door."

Steve realized that all the exercise devices faced the door and not the wall, even though that made it more difficult to climb on the seat of the cycle. (It was even more difficult now that the cycle was lying on its side.)

"Really, captain, this isn't a problem. We have extra machines in storage," Carlos said. "Extra punching bags, too."

"But if I forget my strength again … Next time somebody might get hurt," Steve said sadly. He shivered when he thought that Leslie and Carlos might have been in front of him instead of behind him."

"I'll find someplace you can destroy punching bags to your heart's content," Carlos promised.

"He needs someplace he can go at night when he can't sleep," Leslie reminded Carlos.

"Try this," Carlos suggested, showing Steve how to set up a treadmill. "Start slow and work your way up to top speed."

Steve was doubtful, but he started walking, then jogging. He pushed the lever up to the max and began to run.

"Push it," Leslie called. "See if the treadmill can take it."

Steve's stride began pushing the treadmill beyond its limit. It began to whine. He stumbled forward when the "ground" didn't keep up with his pace. His grip kept him upright.

"Slow it down," Carlos instructed.

Steve chopped his stride, slowing until he was in tune with the treadmill.

"Can you hold that speed?" Leslie asked.

"Yes, as long as I concentrate."

"Then concentrate!" Leslie teased.

"Yes, ma'am."

With the treadmill on high, Steve jogged along. He wasn't pushing himself, but he felt his muscles loosening up. It wasn't all he needed, but it was something.

"What are earbuds?" he asked.

Carlos pulled his phone and earbuds out of his pocket. He demonstrated their use. "You can listen to music without bothering people around you."

He held one up to Steve's ear so he could hear. Leslie laughed when she caught a fragment of rap beat.

Steve yanked his ear away from the overly loud beat. "Is that what they call music these days?" he asked.

"It's not for everyone," Leslie assured him.

Carlos picked out Beyonce song from his playlist. "Better?"

Steve agreed the voice and melody were nice, but privately thought some of the lyrics were rude.

Leslie sat on a bench by the door, checking her email and sending sharply worded notes to her assistants' questions. She'd only been out of the office for two days!

"What else do you have for Steve?" Leslie asked Carlos.

"The next room has weights and open space for sparring," Carlos said.

"Are they free weights, because a resistance machine would be a bad idea," Leslie said.

"Yes, we have free weights," Carlos agreed. "And we have jump ropes," he suggested. "And high ceilings."

"Those sound good," Steve said. They sounded familiar, which was a relief. He began to slow down and stopped the machine, so he could check out the other room. It would probably be good for calisthenics, too.

Carlos tossed him a towel. Steve wiped off his face and neck, though he hadn't actually broken a sweat.

Leslie tossed him his shirt. "Thanks for the show," she teased.

"Don't make it a habit," Steve answered with mock sternness.

"Oh, I plan to," Leslie said lightly.

Laughing, they went to check out the weight room.


	16. Where to Start?

**Where to Start?**

After Steve tried out everything he thought he wouldn't break, he and Leslie went back upstairs. Steve took a quick shower and they made giant sandwiches for lunch.

"Are you ready to tell me about satellite TV yet?"

Because he looked more relaxed after his workout, Leslie decided they could take time for another lesson.

"Do you know what a satellite is?" she asked.

Steve considered how to define the word. "A subordinate companion," he decided. "Like, the moon is a satellite of the Earth and Mongolia is a satellite of the Soviet Union — or it was in my time," he added more hesitantly.

"That's good," Leslie agreed. "The moon is a natural satellite of the Earth. When we talk about satellite TV, we're talking about manmade satellites. Satellite TV delivers programs the way cable companies do, but in a different fashion. You connect your TV to a satellite dish in order to see the shows." She opened her computer so she could show Steve a photo of a satellite dish.

"The satellites are in orbit like the moon?"

"Yes, they use rockets to launch them into orbit."

"Just for television?" Steve was incredulous.

"No, they're for many things. Spying, photography, research. The maps on your phone use GPS. That stands for global positioning system. Satellites can find the precise coordinates of your location, like triangulation. Maybe it actually is triangulation, I haven't studied the details."

"How many satellites are there?" Steve asked.

Leslie blinked. "I have no idea." She looked it up. "More than 2,000," she said. "More than 1,000 of those belong to Russia. The U.S. has about 600 and other countries have a few."

"So, Russia has the most?"

"Russia was first in space," Leslie said. She turned to her computer again. "In 1957, the Soviet Union launched a satellite called Sputnik into orbit. That galvanized the U.S. space program. Couldn't let our enemy get ahead."

"Enemy?" Steve asked. "I'm not really surprised. They were our allies during the war, but never friendly allies."

"Right, let me go back to the Cold War. No, even farther. Back to the end of World War II."

Leslie explained that after defeating the Nazis, Germany and Berlin were divided by the four Allies. England, France and America worked together, but the Soviet Union kept its section separate. Eventually, the Russian sector became East Germany and the rest became West Germany. Even worse, Berlin was likewise divided into two parts, but the city as a whole was in East Germany. It was surrounded by the Soviet sector.

"At one point, the Soviets blocked ground access to West Berlin. The U.S. Air Force, the RAF and other allied western forces flew supplies to West Berlin for nearly a year until the Soviets finally lifted the blockade."

"Um, what's the U.S. Air Force?" Steve asked.

Leslie could have smacked herself. "After World War II, the Air Corps was made a separate branch of the service called the Air Force."

"So we have four branches of the service?" Steve asked. He picked up their lunch dishes, took them to the counter and began running water in the sink.

"Right, Army, Navy, Marines and Air Force," Leslie agreed. "Of course, every branch of the service has pilots, because air travel is ubiquitous now. The Army still has its own planes and jets and helicopters."

Steve raised his hand like a kid in school. "What are jets and helicopters?"

Leslie banged her forehead with the heel of her hand. "This is why I dreaded trying to explain satellite TV," she said with a groan. "One thing leads to another and I can't find a good starting point."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's my fault, not yours. Do you know what a jet is?"

Steve thought for a moment, then put his fist in the soapy water and squirted a jet of liquid into the air.

Leslie chuckled. "Yes, that's a jet. I'm talking about jet aircraft. They don't use propellers. Most use turbines to force out air like your fist forced out the water. They're generally faster than propeller planes."

Steve frowned in thought. "I think I remember reports of planes that didn't have propellers, but I never saw one. What are helicopters?"

"They are aircraft that can hover and take off and land vertically, which is very handy. Very versatile, and good for tight spaces. They have rotors above them, like a horizontal propeller."

"Oh, an autogyro!"

Leslie considered. "Yes, I think that was a term for early helicopter designs." She called up movies of jets and helicopters in action. Steve grinned. Jets were just fast airplanes, but helicopters were something else entirely. He touched a gentle finger to the screen.

"That looks like fun," he said wistfully.

"I'll see what I can do," Leslie promised. "Now, where was I before we got sidetracked on modern aircraft?"

"Sputnik," offered the man with the perfect memory. "West Berlin."

"Right, the Berlin Airlift. That's an example of how the Soviets tried to spread their influence after World War II. Winston Churchill made a speech in …" Leslie looked it up. "… 1946 that included the line 'From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the continent.' We said 'behind the Iron Curtain,' meaning the USSR and the countries it controlled either directly or indirectly, such as Hungary and Romania. It was also called the Eastern Bloc. Competition between the Eastern Bloc and the west was called the Cold War, because no one wanted to start shooting and cause World War III."

No one wanted to start a nuclear war, but, God help her, she didn't want to explain atomic bombs today.

"So, you see how the U.S. and the USSR were in competition?"

Steve nodded.

"So, in this atmosphere, the Soviets put the first satellite in space," Leslie said.

Steve whistled in understanding. "It could be a spy in the sky."

Leslie nodded. "The Soviets also put the first person in space, a man named Yuri Gagarin. The U.S. became determined to catch up. This was called the Space Race."

"Did the U.S. ever catch up?" Steve asked, hunching forward as if he was at an exciting movie.

"Well …" Leslie said casually, "… we were the first to put a man on the moon."

Steve inhaled sharply. "On the moon!" He smiled a little wistfully. "Gosh, Bucky would have loved this. He was a big fan of Amazing Stories and other scifi stories."

Steve wanted to hear more. Leslie found an encyclopedia article that summarized the space race. Fascinated, Steve heard about NASA, the early satellites, and President Kennedy's bold promise to go to the moon by the end of the decade.

Leslie read about the Mercury 7 and the Gemini space walks. When she started to grow hoarse, she let Steve read for himself about the tragedy of Apollo 1 and the triumph of Apollo 11.

"And that was only the 1960s," she pointed out. "We've had other programs since Apollo. Right now, we have astronauts in orbit in the International Space Station."

"How can I find out more?" Steve asked. "Can you teach me how to look things up the way you do — on the computer and on your phone? Can I use the internet for myself?"

Leslie hesitated.

"I wouldn't have to bother you so much," Steve wheedled.

Leslie laughed. "It's only been two days. You're no bother," she said kindly. "And I'm literally being paid to have fun while being your 21st century tour guide. I'm just … I'm not sure you're ready. The internet is a perilous place."

"Don't kids go there?"

"With adult supervision," Leslie answered. "For one thing, the internet is a huge time sink. You start with one topic, then one link leads to another and suddenly it's hours later and you wonder how it got dark so soon. It's like the way this conversation veered from satellite TV to the Cold War to helicopters."

Steve understood. "I've had that happen with the encyclopedia in the library," Steve pointed out.

"That's the other thing," Leslie said. "The internet is like a library where all the books are in plain brown wrappers. You can find a book on Captain America, but you don't know if it's a true history, a comic book, a fictional story or a book of blue postcards. You need to find a reliable source, or you may be reading rumors instead of news."

Steve was disappointed.

"I didn't say 'no,'" Leslie said. "I will show you how to do it tonight, I just wanted to warn you. You may learn things you didn't want to know, and see things you can't unsee, and they won't necessarily be true."

There were so many things she wanted to prepare him for. Atomic bombs and slash fanfiction and the death notices of the Howling Commandos. Terrible things that might traumatize a man who'd suffered enough trauma. But she couldn't protect him forever.

"Tomorrow," she promised. "Today, let's go outside."

* * *

 _A/N: I have written two and a half Christmas stories that I will run in my "A Very Good Team" anthology starting next Saturday. Then we'll get back to Leslie. Happy upcoming holidays._


	17. The Sidewalks of New York

**The Sidewalks of New York**

Steve and Leslie wandered the streets, enjoying the late afternoon sun. Leslie amused herself by introducing Steve to modern fast food chains. Every one they came to, Leslie took Steve in and bought him a couple of representative items: double-decker bacon cheeseburger and fries, footlong submarine sandwich with no onions (because Leslie took a piece of it for her dinner and she couldn't abide raw onions), chili cheese dog (Leslie got one for herself, too), burrito and taco combo. She even bought a chicken nuggets Happy Meal, so Steve could see what one looked like. And see what a chicken "nugget" was. Steve donated his toy to a mom whose daughter was unhappy over the prize she'd received.

Steve ate all the foods, impressed by the speed of service and unbothered about the taste and quality.

"I've eaten worse," he said. "After the Depression and rationing and Army food … this wasn't bad at all." His eyes twinkled. "It's a hundred times better than anything Bucky or I cooked for ourselves. We tried our best to recreate some of our mothers' recipes, but our stove was an old crock."

They enjoyed their moveable feast, finishing with ice cream, then returned to Steve's apartment to watch a Dodger game. They had a peaceful evening. Leslie enjoyed a respite from answering difficult questions. Fortunately, the game didn't run long, so they got to bed early.

* * *

Leslie got up before dawn, which she hadn't done since she got out of the army, unless she had to catch an early airline flight. She poured hot water from her electric kettle over a tea bag and sat back, yawning, while Steve fixed his breakfast.

"Do you want something?" he asked.

"No, my stomach's not up yet," she replied. "We'll stop for breakfast after we check out the track. I deserve eggs benedict for this."

After Steve finished his cereal, they walked to the college field. The track opened at dawn and was already occupied by half a dozen people jogging, sprinting and, in one instance, running up and down the stairs determinedly.

Steve sighed.

"I agree, not enough privacy for you to go all out," Leslie said. "I'm sorry. Let's get some breakfast and check out Carlos' list of gyms."

* * *

Steve enjoyed the eggs benedict — the fanciest egg dish he'd ever had. He also enjoyed the Mexican skillet hash browns and the stuffed French toast. The waitress was impressed, and got a big tip for not making a big deal about it and just asking, "Anything else today?"

The mismatched twosome strolled down the street to the first gym. It was all steel and glass and looked really ... breakable to Steve.

"One down," was all Leslie said.

As they headed toward the second gym on their list, Steve felt a strange buzzing, as if his pocket was full of bees. He jumped, startled, and slapped his pocket, then felt the outline of his phone. He pulled it out. The screen showed an "answer call" slider and the message "unknown."

Steve looked a slightly panicked question at Leslie. "Answer it," she instructed. "Don't say your name," she added.

When they practiced, he'd always answered "Rogers."

Leslie was morally certain that Steve would never get a random sales call over a SHIELD issued phone, but better safe than sorry.

It was funny to think Steve had damn-all experience in answering phones. He and his mother hadn't been able to afford one, neither had he and Bucky. He'd made calls, but he'd hardly ever answered a phone. Even on the rare times during the war when he was in an office in London, a secretary or an aide had answered and then handed him the phone.

With a gulp, he slid the button and said, "Hello?"

"Captain," the hearty voice was familiar and Steve relaxed.

"Director Fury," he acknowledged. "Can I help you?" Leslie raised her eyebrows, but couldn't say she was shocked.

"Just called to see how you're getting along," the director answered. "Reynolds treating you all right?"

"She's great, sir," Steve said with real warmth. "She's been showing me around."

"Finance and foraging," Leslie said, which Steve repeated.

"I've gotten money out of the wall," Steve said dryly like a joke, the same way Leslie said it. "I've been to a supermarket and used a microwave. She told me about the Dodgers. I'm ... learning. Right now we're trying to find a place I can exercise without attracting attention."

He told Fury about the gym in the residence, the overcrowded running track and about Carlos' suggestions for approved gyms. Fury snorted.

"Those are all fancy new places," the director said. "You'll want something old school, like a boxing club."

Steve was relieved that Fury understood. "Someplace I can punch things. Sometimes I really want to punch things," he said plaintively.

"I hear that," Fury answered. "I think I know a place you'll like. Use my name and they'll hook you up."

He gave an address. Steve tucked the phone under his ear and pulled out his notebook to write it down. (More habit than necessity, based on his eidetic memory, Leslie thought.)

"Anything else I can do for you?" Fury asked.

Steve hesitated, then plunged ahead. "I'd like to find out what happened to my team, to ... Peggy Carter. Leslie said she needs your authorization to release the information."

There was silence on the other end of the line, then Fury asked to speak to Leslie.

"Director," she greeted.

"I know you have those files," Fury said.

Steve's head jerked up. Leslie patted his arm.

"Now Steve does, too. Super hearing will be something to keep in mind in the future," she said calmly.

"Sorry." Damn, he actually apologized!

"I have the files, but you never actually authorized me to release the information," Leslie pointed out.

"I didn't actually authorize you to take the files out of the building either," Fury countered.

"Keeping records is what I do," she answered, unperturbed.

"You don't think he's ready yet." It wasn't a question.

"Who could ever be ready for that?" she replied, her unflinching eyes on the Super Soldier. "I want Steve to have a solid grounding in the here and now, before he starts looking at the end of the war and what happened to his friends. It's going to be hard. I don't want him to feel lost. He needs an anchor."

Steve slowly nodded and the incipient anger faded. He patted her shoulder in understanding.

"You're in charge," Fury agreed. "But ... don't wait too long. Something's coming. I can feel it."

Some people wondered if Fury was enhanced. His "feelings" generally proved accurate.

"It's only been four days," Leslie pointed out. "Give the man a chance to recuperate."

"Right. I'll see what I can do about the running problem. Good work, Reynolds. Anything else?"

Steve gestured and Leslie handed him the phone. "Sir, when they found me, did they find my shield?"

"They did, captain. It needed a little paint and some new straps, but otherwise seems undamaged. It's safe in our armory. Do you want it?"

Steve thought about it, but shook his head. "I guess it would be a little conspicuous if I'm supposed to be incognito. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't still in the ice."

"It's safe," Fury assured him

Leslie took the phone back. "Are people posing for pictures with it?"

"That would be a security nightmare," Fury said. "The vault will only open for Cap, Hill, Coulson and me, and Coulson is in New Mexico."

"Just as well," Leslie said. Everyone knew about Phil's Captain America obsession. "There's one more thing. Steve would like a helicopter ride."

"One second." Leslie heard paper rustling. Fury liked to keep schedules on paper. So he could chew and swallow them if captured, he joked. "Tomorrow at 10?"

"That would be fine. Thank you, sir," Leslie said.

"Keep up the good work, 'Aunt' Leslie," Fury said, then hung up.

* * *

Steve thought it was strange. They'd carried on a whole conversation on the sidewalk and no one had given them a second glance. He missed the privacy of phone booths.

Leslie met Steve's gaze. "Are we good?"

"We're very good," he teased.

She smiled. "I can show you the files as soon as we get back," she offered.

Steve thought about it, then shook his head. "No, you're right. I'm not ready yet. Let's find that boxing club, instead."

"Use the map app to find this boxing club," Leslie suggested.

Steve said he didn't need to, because he knew the streets. "It should be two blocks up and three blocks over."

"It's good to practice," Leslie said.

Steve accepted that and one-finger typed the address into the map app. He showed Leslie the result, two blocks up and three blocks over. They'd have to pass his building to get there, so it wasn't far from the residence at all.

"Good to know that you can still find your way around," Leslie said. "That's one of the milestones I wanted to reach."

"Navigation." Steve nodded. He recited all the locations the two had visited, telling Leslie where the grocery store and the bank were, both their addresses and their location relative to where he was standing. He listed the diner they'd first eaten at and the fast food places they'd visited the day before.

"Do you know where the 'office' is from here?" Leslie asked. She didn't want to say "headquarters" on a public street.

Steve had still been in shock when the kindly nurse had accompanied him to the residence. But he closed his eyes and found a memory of their brief car ride. He told Leslie where the building was and described it. "I didn't notice the address," he confessed.

"I'd call that a passing grade," Leslie said with a chuckle. "Also, you can find food and cook it. A-plus-plus, soldier."

* * *

They walked in comfortable silence, looking for the boxing club. Suddenly Steve stopped, tilting his head as if listening. He looked over his shoulder. A boy was running gleefully in their direction, dodging in and out of the pedestrians. When he got closer, Leslie could hear his heavy breathing. The boy stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees, audibly wheezing.

Steve hurried toward him. "Are you alright? Can I help?" he asked anxiously.

The boy looked up, more exasperated by his situation than frightened. He gave Steve the OK sign. He slapped his pockets, then looked annoyed. He closed his eyes and began slow, careful breaths.

"Billy!" a woman's voice called anxiously.

The boy stood up straight and looked around.

Steve stood taller and saw the woman hurrying up the sidewalk.

"Ma'am! Over here!" he called.

She came up, saw the boy, rolled her eyes and fished a small device out of her purse.

The boy put the tube in his mouth, pushed the plunger and inhaled. Like a miracle, the wheezing died away.

"I told you to stay with me," the mother scolded.

"I wanted to see the puppies, before all the good ones are gone," he protested.

"You're not going to get a puppy if you collapse on the sidewalk and have to go to the hospital!"

"It's just asthma," the boy said dismissively.

"You ran off without your inhaler," his mother pointed out.

"I won't do it again," Billy promised, showing how he was putting it in his pocket.

"I wish I'd had one of those when I was a kid," Steve said in admiration.

"You had asthma?" the mother asked.

"Yes, we didn't have ... money for those." He hastily amended his statement, not knowing how long inhalers had been around. It was true anyway. If they'd existed in Steve's childhood, he wouldn't have been able to afford one.

"Single mother," Leslie explained.

The woman nodded. "We're lucky my husband has excellent health insurance."

Steve echoed her nod. Health insurance had been in its infancy before the war, but he knew the concept.

"Puppies," Billy reminded his mother.

"Pet Junction is holding an adoption fair," the mom explained to Leslie and Steve. "We're hoping to find one that doesn't trigger Billy's allergies."

"I always wanted a dog," Steve said wistfully. "But they all made me sneeze."

"But you outgrew your asthma?" Billy asked.

"I did." In one fell swoop.

The boy nodded. "The doctor thinks I will, too. Until then, I have to be 'patient'."

He was obviously quoting his mother, who laughed.

"Patience was always a problem for me, too," Steve agreed.

"Thanks for your help," the mom said, and followed her son to the pet shop. Steve followed behind, curious, and spent a few pleasant moments fussing over puppies and poking a finger for kittens to bat at. "Sorry, little guy," he apologized to one excited pup, a mass of curly apricot curls. "I'm not in a place where I can adopt a dog right now."

Billy gave the curly pup a big hug, then looked at his mother in delight. "No sneezing!" Looked like that pup was going to find a home after all.

Steve pulled himself away.

Outside, Leslie said, "We can stop by my place sometime and you can play with my cat."

"I might like that," Steve said. "So, tell me about medicine these days. They have a cure for asthma?"

* * *

 _A/N: I was going to carry this clear to the boxing club, but it keeps getting longer and I'm still sick, so we'll carry on next week. I hope. I'm also working on some Reconstruction stories. I'd like to get all three that I have in mind finished before I post the first. If only I had some energy._


	18. The Future of Medicine

**The Future of Medicine**

"They don't have a cure for asthma, but they do have a treatment. The mist reduces the swelling in the breathing passages — as best as I understand it. I'm no medical expert," Leslie said. "But we can look it up, if you want details."

Scrolling on her phone, Leslie almost walked into a passerby (who was also looking at his phone). Steve tugged her aside and prevented the collision. He suggested that they find somewhere to sit down, so they can safely look up information.

They went into a pastry shop. Steve studied the goodies in the case. "I don't know what to get," he confessed. There was a piece of cake with layers of chocolate and raspberry jam, but also a custard tart decorated with a mosaic of fruit.

"Get both," Leslie suggested. "You can use the calories. Get one of those fancy coffee drinks, too. Lots of milk and sugar."

Steve hesitated. Leslie poked him playfully. "I know you're hungry. It's been two hours since breakfast."

Steve batted her away with a grin. "OK. What will you have?" He got out his wallet to pay.

"I'll have a chocolate croissant and a plain black tea. I can't eat two calorie-laden treats. I don't burn calories like you do."

With their purchases in hand, they found a table, but the place was crowded. Leslie realized their conversation might be overheard.

"So, your professor wanted you to interview someone about medical advances they've seen during their lifetime?"

Steve was quick on the uptake. "That's right, Aunt Leslie."

"Better get out your notebook, then," she said.

Leslie pondered what diseases Steve would be interested in. She plunked for the ones that menaced her childhood and his.

"Let's see, we have vaccinations for most of the common childhood diseases — measles, mumps, German measles, whooping cough, chickenpox ..."

Steve nodded. "The whooping cough vaccine was invented in the 1930s," he said. "A little late for a lot of kids born in the 1920s," he said dryly. Leslie understood that meant he'd had the disease.

"Today we have a combined vaccine for measles, mumps and rubella, but all those came after my childhood. In my day, if one kid got measles, the typical move was to send all the other kids to be exposed, because all these diseases were considered much less dangerous for children than for adults. My sisters got mumps from a family we went on vacation with (not deliberate exposure), then Mom and I got the mumps from my sisters. I don't remember a lot, but I know she was more miserable than I was. I had measles and mumps before any vaccines existed, though they did have something called gamma globulin that was supposed to lessen the severity of the disease." Leslie looked up this term from her childhood. "I guess it was supposed to help boost the immune system.

"I think they came up with the rubella vaccine before I ever contracted German measles. I never had chickenpox either, despite being exposed at least twice, once as a child and once as an adult. They didn't come up with a vaccine for chickenpox until, like, the 1990s. I've never had chickenpox and I've never been vaccinated for it. These days there are a lot of commercials for a shingles vaccine for people my age. It's another condition caused by the chickenpox virus."

"What about polio?" Steve asked. "And smallpox?"

"As a child, I was vaccinated against smallpox. Today it's considered eradicated around the world. I remember my first polio vaccine. Mom and I stood in line at a park where they were giving out the vaccine. They put a drop on a sugar cube and you ate it. I don't remember what it tasted like, but I remember standing in a long line. One of my earliest memories."

"Has polio been eradicated?" Steve asked quietly. Anyone who might have been listening had tuned out this boring medical conversation. The tables next to them cleared out, meaning they could speak more openly as long as they kept their voices down.

"Not yet. There are still some places in the world where it's endemic, but we're a lot closer. Most of the threatening diseases of a 1920s childhood are curable or controllable these days."

"What about tuberculosis?"

"TB isn't a problem in most of the more developed world," Leslie said. She looked it up to be sure. "They have TB tests to check for it when you travel or when you apply for certain jobs. At least they did when I was younger. According to this ..." She gestured with her phone. "TB is curable with antibiotics, but it takes quite a bit of time." She looked Steve in the eye. "Today, your mother would have been vaccinated, because she worked with TB patients, and, if she got sick, would be cured. The scariest diseases from your childhood are mostly curable. Even leprosy is curable today. Over all, your preserum self would not be as sick today as in the 1920s and 30s."

"The future sounds awesome," Steve said with a grin.

"Of course, we haven't cured everything. Influenza is still a yearly concern. They make a vaccine every year, but some years it's not as effective as others. There are so many strains of flu, they have to guess which ones to include. And sometimes they guess wrong and we have a bad flu season. Flu can be serious, especially for kids and the elderly and people who are already ill, but it's not such a sweeping danger as in the days before antibiotics." Leslie rapped her knuckles on the wooden table. "Knock wood, because the flu is always mutating and health officials have not forgotten the deadly Spanish flu pandemic."

Leslie went on to talk about some today's threats: Ebola and other hemorrhagic fevers (hemorrhagic was a terrifying word all by itself, as far as she was concerned). She talked about AIDS, Alzheimer's, MS and ALS.

"I remember Lou Gehrig's speech," Steve said. "He was still a young man when he died."

"A brave man," Leslie agreed. "ALS is pretty much known as Lou Gehrig's Disease theses days."

Leslie talked a little about cancer, double-checking facts on her phone. "Cancer is when the body's cells run amok," she said. "It's a general term for a lot of different diseases where cells grow abnormally and for tumors. Surgery is often required to remove tumors. Some are treated with chemotherapy or radiation therapy. It depends on the kind of tumor and its position in the body. These days, regular checkups and tests can detect cancer early when the prognosis is good. Skin cancer is the most common and is usually spotted by a physical inspection from a dermatologist. Prostate cancer is Number 2 in men and is detected by a prostate exam and sometimes by a blood test. Breast cancer is Number 2 in women. Mammograms, which are X-rays of the breast, are used to detect abnormal growths that might be tumors." She sighed. "I've had two breast biopsies for lumps that turned out to be cysts, not tumors. About 40 percent of women have fibrous cysts." She raised her eyebrows. "Sorry, this says 50 to 60 percent of women have 'fibrocystic changes,' which is not a disease. Makes it hard to get an accurate mammogram, though, and I always have to go back for a ultrasound." Then she had to tell him about ultrasounds. Like an X-ray but using sonar," she said. Those were both familiar terms to Steve.

"Colonoscopies are interesting," she said, moving on to a new topic. "The doctor puts a tiny camera up your butt and actually examines your digestive tract from the inside."

Leslie laughed at the queasy expression on Steve's face.

"It doesn't hurt," she assured him. "The annoying part is the liquids you have to take to clear out your intestines so they're clean enough to see anything."

"Are you kidding me?" Steve asked doubtfully.

"No, sweetie, endoscopes are amazing. They have a camera on a long, flexible cable, like a plumber's snake. They can look inside and diagnose problems. Some are used for surgery."

She showed Steve the palm of her hand, pointing to a faint circular discoloration near the base of her palm and another on her wrist.

"I had carpal tunnel surgery. The tendons and the nerve in the wrist run through a narrow space called the carpal tunnel. Swelling put pressure on the nerve and it hurt constantly and tingled in my thumb and first two fingers. Filing my fingernails was like torture. The surgical treatment is to open up the space and give the nerve more room. Up until a couple of years ago, the surgeon would slit the wrist and leave a big scar. Now they make two little holes and open up the space from the inside. Arthroscopic surgery is amazing. They can even operate on a baby still in the womb."

"Wow! What caused your carpal tunnel?" Steve asked.

"Probably arthritis," Leslie said. "Repetitive motion, like doing lots of computer work, can lead to carpal tunnel syndrome, but I've been doing that work for years with no problem. I always take regular breaks. But as my arthritis developed, it probably narrowed the tunnel, the doctor thought. Arthritis is my curse," Leslie said. "It's degenerative and painful and there's no cure. You take anti-inflammatories to slow the progression. That's those big pills I take every morning and night. There are lots more treatments for it now than there used to be."

"Seems like medicine has made a lot of advances," Steve said.

"It has. These are just some of my personal observations. You can read up on more if you like. But you're the most amazing advance, in medicine ever," Leslie said. "No one's ever been able to duplicate you."

Steve ducked his head shyly. "I'm not perfect," he pointed out. "I still want to punch things."

"Yes, we'd better get going and find you a punching bag," Leslie agreed.

They balled up their trash and left the building.

* * *

When they found the address, they descended two concrete steps from the sidewalk. The double doors had glass panels framed in peeling green-painted wood. The glass was protected by wrought iron security bars. "Boxing Club" was stenciled in gold letters on the right side door with "Est. 1927" in small letters below. A hand-printed sign indicated the operating hours on the left side. The club should be closed, but the right hand door was slightly ajar and showed a Post It Note reading "Members Entrance."

Steve reached for the door handle.

"On TV, it's always a bad sign when the door is ajar," Leslie joked. "The cops usually find a body inside."

Steve grinned at her. "Director Fury said they'd leave it open for us," he said. "But you can stay behind me if you're scared," he teased.

She made a face at him. "Not scared. Just sensible."

They entered the dimly lit room. It spread out over most of a city block with multiple boxing rings, heavy bags, speed bags and all the other accouterments. The wood floor was scarred but gleamed with polish. Wood fixtures were well worn and the brass was polished. The place was well used, but clean.

Steve took a deep breath and relaxed in the familiar atmosphere.

"Miz Leslie, as I live and breathe!" said a quavering voice with a faint Southern accent.

An elderly black man approached, tilting his head with birdlike curiosity. His white hair and beard contrasted strongly with his dark skin. He was thin but wiry, wearing worn work pants and leaning on a broom.

Leslie surprised Steve by bursting out laughing. "Abraham Lincoln Brown. Still up to your old tricks."

The old man cackled. Leslie gave him A Look and he began to guffaw in a deeper, less feeble voice that somehow had lost its Southern accent. "I've missed you, little girl."

He held his arms wide and Leslie walked into the hug. "You old fraud. It hasn't been three months since you invaded my office and ate all the maple bacon doughnuts."

"I take it this is a friend of yours," Steve said.

The man wobbled his hand back and forth. Leslie punched him. "We used to work together, until he retired."

"There's no one in the building right now, but let's go up to my office to talk anyway. It's more private," Brown suggested. He led the way to some wooden stairs that went up to an office that overlooked the entire facility. He carried the broom with him, touching it down for balance because he limped heavily on his left leg.

"That knee replacement didn't work out?" Leslie asked.

"Knee replacement?" Steve asked, then clapped his mouth shut, realizing he'd shown odd ignorance in front of a stranger.

Leslie patted his arm. "We've been talking about modern medicine," she answered Brown's questioning look. To Steve, she said, "Doctors can replace some damaged joints with artificial ones. Knees and hips are very common. Some others are possible."

"Fingers," Brown said.

"Really?" Leslie asked.

He nodded. "I know a guy."

"Fingers, ankles and shoulders," Leslie said, after studying her phone. "There seems to be a lot of debate about artificial ankles vs. ankle fusion. And I don't see anything about wrists or elbows."

"But lots of people get hip or knee replacements," Brown said. "Including me. I'm still working through my PT. I'll be dancing on the tables soon."

"Eh, I've seen it. Doesn't bear repeating," Leslie teased.

The trio entered his office and Brown turned the old-fashioned door latch, then pressed a series of buttons on a modern keypad. Little lights lit up momentarily, then settled to a steady green glow. "I sweep for bugs — listening devices — every other day, but no one's interested in a has-been spy," Brown said in amusement.

To Steve, Leslie said, "He's got a higher security clearance than I do. He was Fury's training officer years ago."

"Nicky told me who you are, captain," Brown said, extending his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you. Gabe Jones always spoke highly of you."

* * *

 _A/N: So, Brown is based on a character in the Steve Rogers deleted scene from the Avengers DVD. The character manning a desk in the boxing club has no lines, but now he has a whole background in my story._


	19. Marching Forward

_A/N: Sorry this is late. I had a problem uploading to Doc Manager. I was just a child during the times they talk about here. Some of this is research and some my childish impressions._

* * *

 **Marching Forward**

Steve gave a watery smile. "You knew Gabe?"

"I marched with Gabe, Jim Morita, too," Brown confirmed.

Steve frowned. "Marched? In the Army?"

"In the Civil Rights Movement," Brown said. When Steve looked blank, Brown gave Leslie A Look. She threw up her hands. "I don't know why everyone thinks that I should bombard Steve with history. He's been in town less than a week. He needs to know how to find food, how to get around and where he can exercise safely," she said pointedly. "We're going to work on using the Internet soon. Then he can start looking things up for himself. I did tell him about the Dodgers and Jackie Robinson, so he's been updated a little on PC terms."

" 'Black,' not 'colored'," Steve said obediently, figuring Brown wouldn't mind.

The old man just nodded. "That's a good place to start," he admitted. "It's practical. You always were practical," he said to Leslie, who curtsied.

Abe explained a little about the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s and told Steve about the protest marches he went on.

"Gabe used every bit of his fame as a Howling Commando to push for equal rights," Brown said. "One reporter asked if he wasn't ashamed to use your name, the name of a dead hero, to promote his cause. He reminded them that you put together the Howling Commandos, the first racially integrated Army unit. He said if you were still alive, you'd be marching right along with him."

Steve's voice was choked. "I would have. Gabe was my friend. I hated to see him and Jim treated like something less than the rest of us."

"We did some good," Brown said. "There are still racial tensions in the U.S., but it's so much better than the old days."

"Not that you didn't take advantage of prejudice," Leslie joked.

Brown gave her a wicked grin.

"Mr. Brown was one of SHIELD's best undercover agents," Leslie said. "He has the most successful operations in SHIELD history."

"Only because I did it for so many years," he said modestly. "That Romanoff girl is beating my yearly average. She'll pass me someday."

Leslie laughed. Abe had always kept track of his stats, as if he were a baseball player.

"He started with SHIELD the year I was born," Leslie said.

"I was only 17 when I started," Abe told Steve, emphasizing he wasn't as old as Leslie made him out to be.

"He specialized in playing servants back in the late '50s and '60s when black servants were common and commonly disregarded. He played hotel bellhops, restaurant waiters, railroad conductors, house servants — White House servants! He saved the president's life once, so subtly that even the Secret Service never knew."

"And morning coffee was only five minutes late," Brown said proudly. "The president didn't even notice."

"Abe collected information without even needing to hide. He was a legend when I started with SHIELD in 1980."

Brown chuckled at the memory.

"He tried to trick the new girl," Leslie said. "He pretended he was the janitor."

"She spotted me right away," Abe said. "Nearly a hundred enemy agents, mob bosses and traitors had overlooked me, but she identified me immediately."

"It was his bad luck that I'd started my job by filing personnel records," Leslie said dryly. "Now you tell me, how come I never heard about this boxing club?"

Brown shrugged. "You can't teach an old spy new tricks. You didn't need to know, so I didn't say anything. Now you do, so you're here. I inherited the place from my uncle a couple of years ago. He had a nice pension, so he didn't need to make a profit. He ran it as a place where the youngsters could hang out after school. Instructors come in, teach the kids discipline and self-defense. They have connections with other boxing programs if kids seem really serious or really talented. When I took over, I added a private, after-hours club for agents who need a place to let loose and don't need a lot of fancy equipment. Nicky said that's just what you're looking for. Got a few frustrations to let out?"

Steve let out a sigh. "Yeah. I've got to warn you, I'm liable to break things."

He told Abe about puncturing the punching bag and breaking the gym equipment at the residence. Abe just nodded as if this was business as usual.

"Nicky gave me an account to draw on for replacement equipment." Abe pulled a key out of a drawer. "This is the key to the storeroom where I keep the heavy bags. If I'm not here when you come it, you can collect it out of this drawer. I'll make sure we have extra bags in stock at all times. Break as many as you need to."

"I'll clean up after myself," Steve promised.

Abe just shrugged. "It's not a problem. I've got a bunch of teenage boys to do my bidding. It's good for them to work hard."

* * *

"In a roundabout way, you were responsible for me getting into SHIELD, captain," the old man said thoughtfully. "If you hadn't picked him for the Howling Commandos, I never would have heard of Gabe Jones and he was my idol."

"Because he was a war hero?"

"No, because he was a college man," Brown said. "I was determined to go to college. I worked every night busing tables at a restaurant and went to college during the day. Then one night, I was putting on my clothes to go home when the police came and told me I didn't have a home to go to. A Christmas tree fire had destroyed our apartment building. Three families were killed, including mine. The rest of the neighbors, all people I'd known since I was a kid, were scattered. In these days, they'd bundle me off to Child Services because I wasn't 18, but it was looser in those days. I had a job and people offered me clothes and a place to stay. So I was left on my own. My uncle was a journeyman boxer at the time, traveling from hotel room to hotel room, boxing on the undercard. He didn't have a place for me, even if I'd wanted to give up my college dreams, but I got by."

"That's so sad," Leslie said sympathetically. Brown waved the sentiment away."

"It was a looong time ago," he pointed out. "I didn't tell you to get pity, but to show how alone I was. I lived in DC and the steakhouse where I worked was frequented by many important people. I overheard something that, well, it sounded like treason to me. I didn't know who to turn to. My boss, Mr. Hartley, was a good man, but not an important man. I didn't know if he could help me, but I was considering telling him when Gabe Jones and Dum-Dum Dugan and Jim Morita came into the restaurant…"

* * *

It was better than a newsreel when the three Howling Commandos walked into the restaurant — for one thing, they were in living color. Big, bright and loud, that was young Abe's first impression.

They were all dressed up in their uniforms with medals shining, because they'd been at some important meeting.

Dugan was insisting the restaurant had the best pork chops in the city and he wanted some, but Gabe and Jim weren't sure they'd be welcome. Segregation was under fire at the time, but rich white folks still didn't want to eat with coloreds.

* * *

"I'm an old black man," Brown confided in Steve. "I can say 'coloreds'."

"Noted," Steve said gravely.

* * *

The maître d' hustled over to greet the guests. He was nervous. He didn't know what to do with a celebrity black man, and a few regular customers were scowling from their tables, so he passed the buck and called the manager.

Mr. Hartley was from California and a true Christian. He didn't hold with segregation, though it was prevalent in D.C.

"Mr. Robertson," he chided the maître d' gently, but loud enough for all the customers to hear. "We don't turn away war heroes. Gentlemen, this way."

Dugan started to balk when he led them toward a table at the back, but Jones and Morita hustled him along. They appreciated the compromise and didn't want to cause the nice man any more trouble. He wasn't the owner, only the manager.

"I'd rather sit here," Gabe said firmly. "It's quieter back here."

"Though you'll take care of that," Morita teased Dugan.

One couple left in a huff, but another approached politely and asked for their autographs — all their autographs, so it seemed that everything evened out.

Abe realized this was his chance. These men had worked for an intelligence arm of the Army during the war. They could be trusted and they knew people.

The trio ate heartily (with Dugan praising the pork chops). When they left, young Abe took a chance and followed them. He almost ran into them outside, because Dugan had stopped to light a stogie.

"You need something?" Dugan eyed him suspiciously.

"He's just a kid, Dum Dum," Morita said easily. "Probably wants Gabe's autograph."

Abe looked around to make sure no one else was close, then he told the men what he'd overheard.

* * *

"They listened, all three of them, and didn't treat me like a kid telling wild tales. They promised to investigate and, a few months later, there were some scandalous arrests made."

Steve absorbed the information about his friends like an eager sponge. Leslie approved. This way, Steve heard about their lives before he saw the big "Deceased" stamp glaring from the official files.

Abe continued: "One day I was waiting at the bus stop after work. It was 1 a.m. and no one else was around. A roadster pulled up next to the bus bench with a white woman driving. I figured she was lost and going to ask directions, but she looked straight at me and said, 'Mr. Brown. My name is Margaret Carter. Gabe Jones thinks I should offer you a job.'"

"Peggy," Steve breathed.

"I was flabbergasted," Abe said. "All I could say was, 'I have a job.' She smiled at me and her eyes were sharp, but kind. 'Get in and let's talk while I take you home,' she said.

"SHIELD was a small operation in those days," Abe explained. "Miss Carter was one of the top agents and took it as her mission to make sure SHIELD was not made up entirely of lily white men."

"And pretty female secretaries, recruited by Howard Stark," Leslie put in, getting a grin from Abe.

"Miss Carter recruited diversity — women, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, old folks and kids like me. The investigative arm of SHIELD was square-jawed white men, mostly veterans. That's what people expected. The rest of us were the covert squad — the ones who infiltrated; the ones who listened. Heck, half the investigators didn't know we existed. Not until they got to Level 4.

"I joined her crew. I stayed in the job I had, but I listened with more intent. I worked for SHIELD part time and they paid for me to finish college." Abe snorted. "Then I went back to doing all the menial jobs I'd hoped to avoid by going to college! Up until the mid-'60s when the stereotype changed from 'humble servant' to 'angry black youth' and people stopped treating me like furniture. Then I infiltrated Civil Rights movements, trying to sort honest protesters from foreign agitators and protecting protesters from lynchings." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'd been working for SHIELD for 20 years when this little lady came along."

"I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Brown," Steve said sincerely. "I'd like to hear more about your adventures. I have a lot to learn. And I'd like to hear more about Gabe and anyone else that I knew."

"Dugan made a career with SHIELD. Gabe and Morita left after awhile, because they thought they could do more good in more visible roles. Gabe became a professor at Howard University. Jim taught high school in Fresno and ran for office, climbing from city council to Congress. They both openly supported the Civil Rights Movement, promoting peaceful protest and condemning violence on either side. Gabe was in Memphis when Dr. King was assassinated."

"Who?" Steve asked.

Abe glared at Leslie who glared back. "Less than a week," she reminded Abe. "Once he knows his way around in this time, we'll start the catch up lessons."

Abe nodded that this made sense and told Steve, "Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was a Baptist minister and a leader in the Civil Rights Movement. He led peaceful protests and public marches and was willing to go to jail for his beliefs. He was assassinated in 1968. His death led to outbursts of violence and some terrible riots that he would have deplored, but there was also a great outpouring of love and sympathy."

"His name is respected these days," Leslie said. "His January birthday is a national holiday."

"I'd like to learn more," Steve said.

"We'll look him up in our internet practice," Leslie promised. "You have to hear some of his speeches to appreciate him."

"Free at last," Abe murmured. Then he shook himself away from his memories. "Come, let me show you where everything is. You can try out a punching bag or two." He gave a big grin. "I want to see you break something."


	20. Healthy Exercise

**Healthy Exercise**

"No, seriously, I want you to break it," Abe Brown told Steve when they reached the private room where a canvas heavy bag was waiting.

"I don't think ..."

"Leslie's seen it," Abe whined like a little kid. "I want to see it, too."

Steve had to laugh at the elderly man's deliberately childish tone.

"OK. OK," Steve agreed.

Abe showed him where the supplies were and Steve wrapped his hands and took off his button down shirt, leaving just his tight white undershirt.

Leslie wolf-whistled, getting an eye-roll in return.

"Stand back," Steve ordered. When the others were well behind him, Steve began to punch the bag. He started slowly, warming up and getting a feel for the bag. It was meant for a lighter weight boxer, he realized. As he began to hit harder and harder, Steve felt the fabric give, so he put everything he had into the next right.

The bag split apart and sand gushed onto the floor. The rattling chain snapped, and the bag dropped onto the pile of sand.

Steve stepped back, not even breathing hard. He quirked an eyebrow at the others.

"How was that?"

"Not as impressive as when the bag flew across the room," Leslie answered.

"Right, so we need to try again," Abe declared, rubbing his hands in glee. He shepherded Steve through the process of removing the remains of the broken bag and hanging a new one.

"This one is double-wrapped in leather," Abe explained. "It shouldn't split so easily. "Now, try again," he ordered.

Steve shook his head in amusement, but obeyed. He pounded the bag, feeling the difference in quality. He really had to work at it, but eventually he felt the leather begin to stretch. Fearing it would disappoint again, Steve aimed his blows higher, making the chain jerk and twist. The chain snapped before the leather gave way. The bag flew across the small space and hit the wall with a dull thud, leaving a small dent in the plaster.

"Yes!" Abe exulted.

Steve was sweating just a little. He breathed deeply and turned to his audience. "How was that?"

Abe clapped his hands. "Excellent. How do you feel?"

"Good." Steve realized it was true. This was the first time since his awakening that he'd exerted his strength without grief and anger in his heart.

Leslie and Abe grinned at him and he smiled back, the most genuine smile Leslie had seen in her short time with him.

"I think this boxing club will be good for you," she said.

"Yeah." There was relief in that single word.

"Now we need to find someplace you can run full out, without spectators," Leslie said.

"Can't help with that," Abe said. "But we've got these." He fished in the cabinet and held out a jump rope. "The ceiling's high enough and the room is private."

"Right," Steve agreed. "And Carlos said I can jump rope in the residence gym, too."

"It's not quite the same as stretching out in a full run, but it's a good workout," Leslie said. "Heaven knows, just a little bit of jump rope does me in."

"Then you should do more," Abe said, handing her a shorter rope, more fitting for her height.

"And you," Abe told Steve. "Your new assignment is to to punch a bag and NOT break it."

* * *

Steve began to workout with a will, alternating bag work with the jump rope. He made the rope spin so fast, it hummed, and Leslie was afraid to get anywhere close to the whirling rope she could hardly see.

When Steve returned to the punching bag, Leslie took a turn with her own jump rope. It didn't take long before she was panting and sweating. She was a 60-year-old, desk jockey with arthritis. She really needed to exercise more, she told herself firmly. She pushed herself a little, but stopped when her wrists began to ache.

"Not bad for a couch potato," Abe teased. The gym owner had opened the main room for the youth program. He went back and forth between the two rooms, assigning a couple of his assistants to keep an eye on the kids when he was busy.

"What's a couch potato?" Steve asked, not taking his focus off the tear-shaped speed bag Abe had set up for him. Steve had to be really careful not to break the speed bag, because he was so fast. It was more useful for the Super Soldier's concentration than his speed.

"A couch potato is someone who sits on the couch in front of the TV or computer instead of getting out and exercising, or even just getting out and doing things," Leslie answered, wiping her brow. "I try not to be a couch potato, but I am," she confessed. "I've gotten more exercise just walking around with you than I have in months."

"So I'm good for something," Steve said brightly. Leslie was so happy to not hear a trace of bitterness in his voice.

"You are good for a lot of things," Leslie answered. "He can cook," she told Abe. "He baked bread! And he was better at I am sorting out the cords to hook up the TV and Blu-ray and all."

"Bread didn't come out so good," Steve confessed.

"The flavor was excellent," Leslie corrected. "The texture will be better next time, now that you know not to overwork it with your mighty muscles."

"Home baked bread," Abe marveled. "I haven't had that since, well, since my mom died."

"You'll have to come over then," Steve offered, putting up a hand to stop the speed bag. "We'll try again." Then he looked back at Leslie with a slightly guilty question in his eyes.

"Of course you can invite a friend over, Steven," Leslie said in her best mom voice. "As long as he's got security clearance, which Abe has."

"So I can't invite Billy but I could invite Hill?" Steve joked. Leslie made a face at him.

"Hill I know. Who's Billy?"

"A kid we met on the street," Leslie answered. "He'll be too busy playing with his new puppy to come over, anyway."

Leslie explained about the asthma incident while Steve reached for his water bottle. He looked happy and relaxed by finally getting some unstressful exercise. Then he frowned.

"Um, Leslie, I'm hungry," he said almost apologetically.

She looked at her watch and realized it was nearly 3. "Heavens, we missed lunch. That's not good for you. Won't hurt me any, though. Let's go home and get a snack while we start dinner," she suggested.

Abe tossed Steve a couple of Power Bars. "These should hold you until you get some real food."

The bars had nuts and chocolate, one with peanut butter and one with cashews.

Steve devoured them in a couple quick bites, then washed them down with a whole bottle of water. He looked down at himself, drenched with sweat from the satisfying workout. "I should take a shower and change," he said.

Abe had already pointed out where the private locker room and showers were, with a bin of towels and a shelf of personal size soaps and shampoos.

"You should," Leslie agreed. "But why don't we go home and get dinner started, then you can shower while it's cooking."

"Can we grab a taco or something on the way?"

"We can. And now you know why fast food is popular," Leslie answered.

* * *

Steve felt awkward walking the streets all sweaty, but there were others overheated from exercise or hard work. Steve politely tried to stay downwind of passersby and didn't want to go into a closed in shop. Leslie ran in and got Steve a burrito while he lingered out on the sidewalk. He realized that people were looking at him, but not like they were offended. More like they were admiring his physique.

One woman was bumped by a man and rebounded into Steve. He saw the face she made when her hand brushed his sweaty arm.

"Sorry, ma'am," he apologized.

She started to say something, as she wiped her hand on her pant leg, then she looked him up and down. "No, don't apologize," she said. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. Keep it up," she grinned and continued on.

Leslie came out in time to see the exchange.

"I'm disgusting," Steve said, using a fast food napkin to wipe the sweat from his brow, then his arms.

"'Disgusting' was not the word she would have used," Leslie countered with a smile.

* * *

Despite the burrito, Leslie could still hear Steve's stomach complaining when they got home.

"I'm sorry, we could have gone out again. It would have been faster," she said. "But the chickens I bought need to be cooked."

Steve fervently agreed that wasting food was a sin. "I can wait," he promised.

Leslie handed him a yellow plastic cutting board and set him to breaking down one of the chickens. He cut it into eight pieces — breasts, thighs, legs and wings — with neat, firm chops. Meanwhile Leslie was spraying Pam on a baking dish. They seasoned both sides of the chicken pieces with garlic salt and pepper, then put them in the dish skin side up. "Space them out a little," Leslie instructed. She put the dish in at 400 degrees.

As soon as the first chicken was in the oven, Leslie started preparing a second.

"This recipe is more flavorful, but it takes longer and I didn't want you to have to wait," she explained.

She put this chicken whole in a roasting pan. While some butter was melting on the stove, she loosened the skin and rubbed softened butter on the flesh beneath the skin.

"Cut two oranges in half for me, please," she instructed, keeping her buttery hands away from everything. She squeezed the oranges over the chicken, then put the now-greasy orange halves inside the bird's cavity. Steve tied the legs together with kitchen twine, while she washed her hands. She swore she always got more butter on her hands than on the poultry flesh when she tried this, but it made the chicken taste so good!

Once her hands were clean, Leslie sprinkled the bird with garlic salt and pepper, then drizzled the melted butter over it and put sprigs of herbs on and around it.

"We'll put this one in as soon as the first one is done. Then MAYBE we'll have some leftovers for tomorrow," she said, giving Steve a deeply significant look.

He tried to look innocent, but it was an epic fail. Leslie told him to hit the showers. He went to his room with relief. He was sticky and uncomfortable and sure that he smelled.

With 20 minutes remaining before she had to do anything to the first chicken, Leslie went to her own room to shower and wash her hair.

They were both back in the kitchen before the first timer went off. They puttered around, setting the table and pricking the skin of several red-skinned potatoes that they would cook in the microwave when the chicken was done.

Leslie's fine hair was just getting dry, when the timer the 30-minute mark and it was time to turn the oven down to 350 degrees.

"Starting at a higher temperature should get the skin crispy, but it will burn before the inside gets done if you don't turn the temp down," she told Steve.

He was impressed by her knowledge. She shrugged. "I looked it up last night," she said, showing him the recipe on her smartphone. "Now it's got to bake for 10 to 30 minutes, depending on how thick the meat is, I presume. We'll start checking at 10. We look for when the juices run clear."

* * *

While they were waiting, Leslie got out a green cutting board.

"This one is for vegetables. Never use this one for meat." She pointed out the yellow one Steve had used for the poultry, the red one that was for red meat and the blue one for fish. "Keeping them separate helps prevent cross contamination. You do NOT want raw meat juice touching something you're going to eat raw, like salad. Raw chicken is especially bad. You could spread bacteria like salmonella which makes people sick and can be deadly."

"And you shouldn't let raw chicken touch raw beef either?"

"It's best to keep them separate. It's just good cooking practice. But if you cook both the beef and chicken fully, then you'll kill the bacteria and the food will be safe to eat," Leslie answered. "Oh, and always wash your hands after using the toilet, especially before handling food. There's something called norovirus, stomach flu, people call it, and it stays in a person's feces for weeks after they get better. You could make your whole family, a whole restaurant full of people, hell, a whole cruise ship full of people, sick by not washing your hands."

Steve had washed his hands twice already, but he immediately washed them again because that whole notion was gross. "Cruise ship?" he asked.

"Ocean liner," Leslie answered, "but meant for fun trips, not for simply crossing the ocean as transportation. We mostly cross the oceans on airliners these days."

The smell of the cooking chicken was making Leslie's mouth water. She hadn't had any lunch, either. "We haven't had our taste test yet," she said. "Let's see what your super senses can tell us."

* * *

 _A/N: The chicken recipes were based on AllRecipes dot com recipes._


	21. Taste Test

_A/N: I didn't get any alerts when I posted a chapter last week and hardly any reviews, so check and see if you read Chapter 20 before reading this one. I remembered that the guys bought some weird looking foods at the grocery. Time for a taste test._

 **Taste Test**

While they waited for the chicken to finish cooking, Leslie suggested trying some of new flavors and unusual items they'd bought at the grocery store.

"Let's see if you prefer organic to regular produce, which may have been sprayed with chemical insecticides and fertilizers. It's supposed to be washed off before it goes to market, but it's best to wash everything yourself."

She rinsed off a regular and an organic tomato. "Don't watch," she instructed. When he turned his back, she cut the tomatoes in wedges and set out two saucers. She took a couple of wedges for herself, but left the rest for Steve.

"Can you taste any difference?" she asked. She couldn't.

"They both taste fine," Steve said. "There's a little bit of a metallic taste to this one…" He gestured at the regular tomatoes. "But I don't mind it. I'm used to eating bruised produce that's past its prime. This fresh food is great!"

Leslie grinned at his exuberance. People these days complained about preservatives, frozen food, canned food, food that wasn't locally grown. If they spent a winter eating nothing but carrots and turnips, they might rethink their dogmatic stance. Steve was happy to eat food that wasn't spoiled.

* * *

"Here's some more salad stuff," Leslie said. She pulled out her two ugly vegetables, the avocado and the jicama.

Leslie cut around the circumference of the avocado, then twisted the two halves apart.

Steve was surprised to see creamy green flesh and a big brown pit inside the unappetizing dark pebbly skin.

Leslie got Steve to peel the dirty outer layer from the jicama to show the bright, crisp white flesh inside. Steve carefully sliced it into strips, then tasted one.

"It reminds me of a radish," he decided. "It's got a little bite."

The soft, mild-flavored avocado made a nice contrast. And they, and the tomatoes, were even better with a drizzle of ranch dressing.

"Why 'ranch' dressing?" Steve asked.

"I think it was developed, or at least popularized at a dude ranch. Hidden Valley Ranch is or was a real place, not just a brand," she said, showing Steve the label on the bottle.

"I like the taste," Steve said.

"It's the most popular salad dressing these days," Leslie said.

* * *

While they nibbled their vegetable platter, Leslie popped the top of a can of low sodium green beans.

"What's that?" Steve asked. Fascinated, he took the lid and poked at the pull ring.

"Oh, this is a pop-top can." She handed him the can of regular beans. "Tip up the ring to break the seal, then pull back to peel the lid off. Careful! Don't pull the ring off."

Steve followed the instructions very, very carefully. He grinned when the lid peeled back. "That's amazing. Are all cans like this?"

"No, we still have can openers. Even hand-crank can openers, as well as electric can openers. I've got to show you my waggle-tail electric can opener. It's so cute."

"These would have been great in the field," Steve said, still marveling as he swiveled the ring up and down. "We had cans with keys that you turned to peel a strip of can away but …"

Leslie nodded. She remembered those. "It took a lot of finger strength," she said.

"And sometimes they broke off. I remember Bucky taking an ax to a canned ham when the key only peeled off an inch of the can."

"The Howling Commandos were a dangerous bunch," Leslie teased.

Leslie heated up two bowls of green beans. The microwave beeped just as the timer went off for the first batch of chicken. Leslie checked to see the juices were clear, which they were. Steve gladly took out the dish of chicken pieces.

"Down boy. It's got to rest for 10 minutes or all the juice will run out and it will be dry."

Steve pretended to sulk. Leslie handed him the bowls of green beans, then went to turn up the oven temperature for the second chicken.

"These beans are definitely saltier than the others. Those taste kind of bland, if you ask me," he said.

"It won't be a problem for you," Leslie said. "But I usually get the lower sodium for myself." Then she smacked herself on the forehead. "I forgot the potatoes!"

Steve hurried to put the washed and poked potatoes into the microwave, pushing the Quick Min button twice like a pro.

"I'm terrible at getting everything ready at the same time," Leslie confessed.

"I'll never tell," Steve promised. When the microwave beeped, he flipped the potatoes over and zapped them again, as per Leslie's instructions.

"My microwave always seems to cook from the bottom. That's why I flip them," she explained.

Leslie put the second chicken in the oven and mixed the regular and low salt bowls of green beans. She put the beans back in the microwave to rewarm them, while Steve juggled the hot potatoes to the table. (Maybe microwaves don't heat the ceramic plate, but the hot potatoes do!)

"Aha! Everything's hot at the same time! Triumph!" Using a couple of potholders, Leslie brought the beans to the table and set the bowl beside the dish of chicken.

They served up their meals and Leslie had to snicker at the sight. She had one potato, a small pile of green beans and one chicken thigh. Steve had four potatoes, half a plate of green beans and a separate plate with most of the rest of the chicken.

Steve considered his heap of food, then deliberately forked a leg and a breast back to the serving dish.

"Eat all you want," Leslie said. "You worked hard today." She did not want him to feel bad about his appetite.

"I want to save some room for the second chicken, if that's OK. The orange smells delicious."

"Good plan," Leslie agreed. "I got the impression you liked orange when we were at the grocery store. That's why I used oranges on the chicken."

"An orange for Christmas was the height of luxury for me growing up," Steve reminisced.

"I hope you enjoy the chicken," Leslie said. "I think I'll fix an orange sauce for it. That's something I've read about but haven't tried." Steve deserved some pampering, she thought.

It didn't take long for Leslie to finish her modest meal. "You keep eating. I'm going to work on the sauce," she instructed.

She looked up a recipe that used ingredients she had on hand. Steve finished his food and came to help her zest and squeeze oranges. ("Always zest first. It's hard to zest a floppy peel.") She mixed in spices and let the juice reduce. ("That means the water evaporates and the juice becomes more like a syrup," she explained.) She watched it anxiously. If she let it go too long, it would get too thick. She didn't want an orange jam.

The second chicken finished cooking and Steve took it out to rest. He hummed in appreciation.

When Leslie thought the sauce was reduced enough, she took it off the stove and added a little butter. She thought it might be runnier than it ought to be, but Steve happily poured it over his orange chicken.

"Thanks, Leslie, this is swell," he said. "Aren't you going to have a piece?" He used tongs to hold out a chicken leg and waggled it at her.

Leslie succumbed to temptation and held out her plate. She added a spoonful of sauce. She smiled when she realized it really tasted good. A successful experiment!

* * *

"Want a little fruit for dessert?" Leslie teased, bringing out more strange looking produce.

"Sure," Steve said. "What's inside that one?" he asked, pointing at the fuzzy brown kiwi.

Leslie sliced it in half. Like the avocado, the unprepossessing exterior revealed a green interior, a brighter green with tiny black seeds. Leslie handed him a kiwi half and a spoon.

"Just scoop it out," she instructed.

It had a bright, astringent flavor unlike anything Steve had eaten. "It's kind of … spicy," Steve said. "I like it."

"Is there anything you don't like?" Leslie asked.

"Those volcano wings," Steve said instantly. "And raw onion. Onion is great when cooked, but I pick it off sandwiches."

"And out of salads," Leslie agreed. "One bite of raw onion and that's all I can taste for hours."

"Any more new things to sample?" Steve said. He knew there was, because she had something unfamiliar in her hand.

Her eyes twinkled. "This is your fruit, Cap. It's a starfruit."

It was a pale yellow oval with deep ridges.

"Why starfruit?" Steve asked.

Leslie winked, then sliced the fruit, keeping the pieces hidden. She spread them across a plate. "Tada!" The cross-sections were, indeed, star shaped. The skin was waxy, the flesh was like a grape and the flavor was like a mix of grape, apple and citrus. All Steve could think was that it tasted "fruity."

"Any more surprises?" Steve asked. "Because I'm actually starting to get full."

"Then my evil plan has worked." Leslie twisted an imaginary mustache. "Tell you what. We'll wash the dishes, then I'll give you a lesson on using the internet. We can start by looking up Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and then find out how punching bags are made."

"And tomorrow we have a helicopter ride," Steve reminded her.

"Sounds like fun!"

* * *

 _A/N: You might have to wait for the helicopter ride. I think I'll post a Reconstruction chapter next week._


	22. Web Browsing

**Web Browsing**

Steve had some idea how the internet worked because he'd been watching Leslie look things up for days now.

They cleared the table and Steve opened the laptop, pushed the power button and waited for the machine to start. He put a finger delicately on the touchpad and swirled it around, getting a feel for using the cursor. He brought it down to point at the browser icon.

"This one, right?"

"That's correct. Press firmly on the track pad to click on the icon," Leslie said.

Steve pressed firmly, too firmly. Instead of the application launching, a menu opened. Steve looked alarmed.

"No, that's OK. Just slide the cursor off to the side and let go," Leslie coached. When the menu disappeared, Leslie told him to try again. "Just click on the icon, don't hold the button down."

Steve tried again and — success! — the browser launched, going to a collection of icons that Steve had seen many times while Leslie was driving. He was much amused by the Google doodle, honoring an artist he'd never heard of. He clicked on the doodle to find out more and got lost in the information — this artist, that art movement, this related artist.

Smiling, Leslie let him poke around for a bit before calling him to order.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"It happens to everyone," Leslie said. "It's easy to end up following links down the rabbit hole."

"I get that reference," Steve said proudly. "But what does it mean here?"

Leslie chuckled. "You can start out looking for one topic and end up wandering the internet for hours. All of a sudden it's midnight and you never did find the reference you wanted for your term paper, although you did see a neat video of surfing dogs."

Steve typed in "surfing dogs" and a window came up. At the top was a picture of a dog on a surfboard with an arrow in the middle pointing to the right.

"That means 'play,' doesn't it?" It was the same symbol from the remote control. He clicked on it and watched a "YouTube" video of a dog surfing contest at Huntington Dog Beach.

"Now find Dr. King's 'I Have a Dream' speech," Leslie said.

Steve began typing and only typed "King I h" before a variety of options presented themselves, including a video, a speech analysis and a transcript. He selected the video option and still found several choices. Leslie pointed out the various websites. YouTube and were among the choices.

"YouTube is just videos. might have more background in addition to the video," Leslie said. "I like YouTube for fun videos like the surfing dogs and for how-to videos."

She typed "how to tie a tie." Selections included diagrams and YouTube videos. "Seeing it in action is easier for me to understand," Leslie said.

Steve nodded and filed the "How-to" information in his mind. He would need a lot of "how-to" help. The internet was so helpful.

"Can I go back to Dr. King?" he asked.

"Click the back arrow, there." She pointed.

Steve watched the speech, then found his way to a history site. He learned about Selma and saw a list of related topics.

"If a name is in color, it's a link you can click on," Leslie said.

Steve saw a familiar name. The cursor hovered for a moment above "Gabe Jones" name, but eventually he passed it by. He wasn't ready.

"Punching bags, right?" That was the other assignment Leslie had given him.

Even though he mistyped his question, the browser knew what he wanted.

"It's really smart," he said, impressed.

"It's very handy if you're not sure how to spell something," Leslie agreed.

Steve read about the construction process. Goatskin leather, interesting. But it wasn't that interesting.

"What next?" he asked.

Leslie pondered the decades Steve had missed. "Look for 'The British Invasion,'" she suggested.

"Sounds like Normandy," Steve said, teasing, but a little sad, too.

"No, we're not looking up war stories today," Leslie said firmly. "I'm not ready."

Steve typed in the search. "Oh, music!" The Wikipedia quote was "The British Invasion this time goes by the name Beatlemania." Steve followed links for "Beatlemania" and watched a video of the Beatles singing "I Wanna Hold Your Hand."

"What do you think?" Leslie asked.

"It ain't Big Band," Steve judged.

Leslie laughed. "This was my generation's music. We're called the Baby Boomers, all the kids born after the servicemen came home from the war. Some people in your generation considered the music scandalous, but they had plenty of choice of other music. The 1960s was an amazing time for music. Rock was getting started, but you still had crooners like Sinatra. Rhythm and blues, folk music." Leslie shook her head. "There was something for everyone. Well, still is, really."

Leslie played a few samples for Steve: "Puff the Magic Dragon" by Peter, Paul and Mary. "One of my childhood favorites. Some people claim it's about drugs, but I thought it was a song about a boy growing up and leaving his childhood toys behind." "A Taste of Honey" by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. "This was my Dad's favorite," Leslie said.

Then she pulled up "My Kind of Town" by Frank Sinatra.

"I remember him," Steve said. "We met when I was on tour. Young skinny guy. Nice fella, even if he was from Jersey."

"His career had its ups and downs. His singing career was revived by a successful movie career," Leslie said. "He's considered one of the greatest singers of the 20th century, that skinny kid from Jersey."

"Good for him," Steve said. "What's my next assignment?"

"May the Force Be With You," Leslie said.

That led Steve to video clips of space ships and lightsaber fights.

"Wow!" The special effects were so far beyond Flash Gordon serials where model spaceships hung from wires and had sparklers sparking out the back for propulsion.

"Don't read too much about 'Star Wars,'" Leslie warned. "You don't want to spoil the plot."

"Can we watch it?" Steve asked, making a note in his notebook. "This looks like something Bucky would have liked," he said wistfully.

"I'm always up for watching 'Star Wars'," Leslie said.

"One small step for man," led to a grainy black and white video of a white-clad foot bouncing down on the gritty surface of the moon.

"I watched that live," Leslie said quietly. "I was holding my breath. Live pictures from the moon. It was a tedious show, because they were very careful and progressed very slowly. And yet we were glued to the TV. It was amazing to think it was coming live from the moon!"

"Do we go to the moon all the time now?" Steve asked.

"Not since the end of the Apollo program in the 1970s," Leslie said. "Now NASA is focused on the International Space Station and satellites that are exploring the solar system. We do have robots rolling around on Mars."

Steve's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. "Can I see that?"

"Search for it," Leslie ordered with a smile.

Steve typed in "robots on Mars." Leslie thought he might find fiction links, but the Mars rovers were at the top of the list.

Steve poked around and found out the Spirit Rover was stuck in the sand, but Opportunity had been rolling along since 2004. Steve marveled at the new pictures of Endeavor crater on Mars.

"Doesn't look like Burroughs' Mars," Steve commented. He tried to sound offhand, but there was a catch in his voice. Leslie could imagine young Steve and Bucky crowded together reading "A Princess of Mars." She was sure Steve was mentally sharing this modern marvel with Bucky.

To lighten the mood, Leslie found some clips from 1950s comedies, such as "Your Show of Shows" and "I Love Lucy." After she got Steve chuckling again, Leslie considered her day's work was done.

They went to bed and, inspired by the promised helicopter ride, for a change Steve dreamed of flying, not falling. He soared over Brooklyn like a kite, looking down on his mom, and Mrs. Barnes and waving frantically at young Bucky who waved back just as enthusiastically. It was a good dream and Steve hugged it close when he woke up the next morning.

* * *

 _A/N: OK, I'm back. I can't promise regular updates, but look for me on Saturdays and see if I've gotten anything done. I have been writing, but I can't run the two stories I've finished yet. One is near the end of this series. I wanted to get the idea on paper before I forgot. The other is a tag to Infinity War, which I won't run until June. Maybe I can get the helicopter story done by next weekend, but I have several other projects to finish, so maybe not. I'll try._

 _Happy Cinco de Mayo and Happy Kentucky Derby Day! And Happy Star Wars Day, one day late._


	23. Flying High

_A/N: When I talk about SHIELD's New York Headquarters, where Leslie works, I'm talking about the building that Steve escaped from at the tail end of Captain America: The First Avenger. We didn't really see much of it, so I am reimagining it. Also, from my view, SHIELD was fairly anonymous until the Chitauri attack. The great edifice of the Triskellion was built after. The other facilities we saw in AoS, like the Hub and the Fridge, were covert operations._

* * *

 **Flying High**

Waking cheerfully for the first time in 2012, Steve fixed a hearty breakfast for himself, then fixed a lighter meal when Leslie finally emerged from her room bleary-eyed and yawning.

"It's only 7," she complained mildly.

"I let you sleep in," Steve teased.

Leslie chuckled and ate her orange scone without further complaint.

* * *

On their way to the much-anticipated helicopter ride, Leslie ordered Steve to find the headquarters building. He found it easily, despite the traumatic circumstances of his last visit.

"I was always good at finding my way, even before the serum," he explained.

When they entered the anonymous building, Steve realized the entry was set up to look like an office building with many tenants. A stranger wandering in by accident wouldn't realize the building belonged to a single entity.

SHIELD Security was just one name on the directory. Steve also saw a health care company (the infirmary), legal services (the agents) and, Steve smiled, Reynolds Document Storage.

"Is that you?" he asked.

Leslie ducked her head shyly. "They needed a name for the board. It's just because I've been here so long." She didn't let Steve make another comment. "We're going to C&S Air Courier."

"Is that named for someone, too?" Steve said, nodding at the C&S logo.

Leslie regarded him, then judged it would be OK.

"It's for two of SHIELD's founders: Carter and Stark."

Steve missed a step, then caught himself. "That's nice they're not forgotten," he said, in a voice clotted with emotion.

The description of C&S on the directory included medical transport and "flightseeing."

"Flightseeing?" Steve smiled. He understood the word and thought it was clever.

"It gives SHIELD a cover for transporting agents and equipment," Leslie said.

Leslie led Steve through the security screening — something that wasn't at all strange in modern New York. They passed a blocked off area where something was under repair. Leslie didn't tell him it was from damage caused by his great escape, but Steve recognized the area. He was a little embarrassed, but not much. He'd thought he was a POW and it was his duty to escape.

They went up the elevator to the air courier, which was, naturally, on the top floor.

* * *

The sleek black helicopter stood on the roof, blades turning lazily. Vertically challenged Leslie didn't need to duck to approach the helicopter, but she did and Steve followed her lead. (He needed to duck.)

The pilot stepped down from the aircraft, removed a helmet that had cords trailing back into the cockpit, then turned around to greet her passengers. Steve realized it was Maria Hill.

He smiled, happy to see a familiar face.

Maria blinked. Leslie hid a grin, knowing that was the equivalent of another woman gasping and staggering backward.

Steve's rare happy smile could knock your socks off.

"Wow," Maria said. "You look much happier than that sad sack I met a couple of years ago."

Steve looked abashed. His grin damped down but did not extinguish.

Maria was sorry to see it. "Leslie's been good for you," she said gently.

"Leslie has taught me a lot," Steve agreed. "I still feel lost sometimes, but I'm getting better. And I had a good night last night. I dreamed about flying and I saw all my friends below, but I wasn't sad. They all yelled 'fly, Steve, fly!'"

Maria wiped eyes that were surprisingly damp.

"I'm sure that's what your friends would want," Leslie said quietly. "They would want you to be happy."

Steve's smile had gone watery.

"None of that!" Maria said firmly. "We're going flying! There's no crying in flying!"

Steve didn't get the reference, but the comment made his 100-watt smile return.

"Let's fly!" he said.

Maria settled them in their seats, Steve in the copilot's seat and Leslie behind Maria where she could keep an eye on Steve. The passengers put on headphones so they could talk without shouting over the sound of the engines.

Maria spoke into the radio and got permission to take off.

"I filed a flightseeing flight plan," she told her guests, as the helicopter lifted off. "We should be able to see all the landmarks without getting in the way of commercial or police traffic."

"Stay out of the way of those car chases," Leslie joked.

Steve tried to figure out how a car chase could affect air traffic. "Are flying cars a problem?" he asked, craning his neck to look for them. "Howard built one, but it didn't work. Howard Stark, I mean," he said, in case they didn't realize.

Maria and Leslie would hve exchanged a glance, if Leslie hadn't been behind the pilot.

"So, no flying cars?" Steve deduced. He was a little disappointed. He and Bucky and Howard had talked about flying cars a lot. That had been their vision of the future.

"No flying cars," Leslie agreed.

"It's just as well," Maria commented with a chuckled. ":Considering how badly people drive on the ground."

"If the cars don't fly, then how would a car chase impact our flight?" Steve asked.

Leslie explained about police helicopters and news helicopters converging on any sort of police activity.

"So we would need to stay out of the way." Maria paused. "I'm getting a message right now."

Into her microphone, she confirmed a message, then turned to a new heading. Steve's sharp eyes saw a red and white helocpter arrowing across the sky, its course intersecting with the SHIELD helicopter's original course.

"Life flight?" Leslie asked.

"Transplant," Maria answered. "There's a donated heart onboard and the clock is ticking."

"A donated heart?" Steve questioned in surprise.

"Remember what we learned about joint replacements?" Leslie asked, getting a nod. "Doctors now can replace damaged internal organs, too. They will use this heart in a transplant to replace a damaged heart."

"Then ... is this an artificial heart?" Steve asked hesitantly, recalling the information about artificial joints.

"No." It was Leslie's turn to hesitate. "This will be the heart of someone who died in an accident. The brain was dead but the heart and other organs can be kept alive for a time. Not for long, which is why the clock is ticking."

"Doctors just take the organs they need?" Steve sounded dubious.

"The donors are volunteers," Leslie corrected. "They leave instructions that, if something happens, their organs can be harvested. Or their families make that decision after the donor's accident."

"That's so …"

Maria wondered if he would think it was macabre, like something out of "Frankenstein."

"… so brave," Steve marveled. "So selfless. In their hour of grief, they think about saving someone else's life."

"I've read articles where the families say that this way a piece of their loved one goes on," Maria said so quietly, Steve wouldn't have been able to hear except for the headphones.

Leslie explained that there are living organ donors, too. People can spare one of their two kidneys or a piece of a lung.

Steve marveled at the concept. Now this was something he might have expected from the future.

* * *

 _A/N: So I have more planned for this tourist flight, but I haven't been able to get much done lately. My mother was in and out of the hospital starting May 5 and she passed away May 28, so even when I have time to write, I don't have the inclination. Eventually I'll get back to it, but for now, just keep checking on Saturdays. Thanks for all your kind reviews._


	24. Flightseeing

_A/N: Just for the record, this tour is based on maps. I only visited New York for one day and have never toured there. My assumption is that SHIELD's New York HQ is somewhere near Times Square, since that's where Steve ended up after he ran away at the end of First Avenger, so that's the starting point of the flight._

* * *

 **Flightseeing**

As the helicopter rose, Steve saw Times Square below. It made him cringe to remember his first moments awake in this century, when he ran from SHIELD and found himself in a bright, confusing, yet still recognizable Times Square. As Maria turned the helicopter, Steve caught a glimpse of the Empire State Building to the south and Grand Central Station to the southeast. He craned his neck to keep the familiar buildings in sight. Through the headset, Maria could hear the small sound of protest he made.

"Don't worry," she said. "We'll circle back. I thought we'd head north first. This should be familiar, too."

And there it was, the big green rectangle of Central Park. Steve smiled to see it. He smiled at most familiar landmarks, Leslie had noticed.

"Did you spend a lot of time there as a kid?" she asked.

Steve shook his head. "No, most of my childhood it wasn't the nicest place to visit," he said, surprising the women. "Ma said Tammany Hall didn't care, so the park was let go to seed. The lawns were weeds and bare dirt and, during the Depression, a shantytown was built there. Ma didn't think it was safe. It didn't get fixed up until I was 16, when LaGuardia was elected. He appointed Mr. Moses to fix up the park and he fixed up all the parks in about a year. That was nice."

"So you didn't ever go to Central Park?" Maria was a little disappointed.

"Oh, we went sometimes. We went to the zoo and to the carousel," Steve said. "The carousel burned down when I was about six and I cried for the poor horsies. I think I had the real zoo animals and the carousel animals confused."

Leslie was Googling things as Steve mentioned them. She told Steve he might know the current carousel because it had been at Coney Island.

"I'd like to see that," Steve said wistfully. "We went to Prospect Park more often than Central Park. It was rundown, too, but it was closer and had a menagerie."

"It was built by Olmstead, too, like Central Park, right?" Leslie asked.

"Yes, and it was revived by Moses when I was 16 or 17," Steve answered. "Bucky and I were so excited when they built an actual zoo instead of just a menagerie. Ma loved the Botanic Gardens. We always went when the cherry trees were in bloom. But when they opened the rose garden when I was about 10, that became her favorite."

"We'll swing around to Prospect Park," Hill promised. "And, if I remember correctly, the cherry trees are blooming now."

Steve's smile was bright, though he had to wipe some moisture from his eyes.

The tour flew the length of Central Park. Steve spotted Cleopatra's Needle and the Balto statue. "I know the Belvedere," Steve said. "But what's that?" He pointed at a building that looked just as fanciful as Belvedere Castle. It was round with bands like a collapsible cup.

Leslie brightened. "Oh, that's the Guggenheim. It's an art museum. We'll have to visit it."

"The millionaire? Solomon Guggenheim?"

"Right, he collected art. He asked Frank Lloyd Wright to design a museum to house it," Leslie said.

"That was during the war, wasn't it," Steve said thoughtfully. "I remember hearing a little about it. I'd seen an exhibit by the Guggenheim Foundation, so I was excited to get home and see the new museum."

"Well, now you can," Leslie said stoutly, to forestall any sadness. "The building was something new for an art museum. You walk down a spiral. You'll have to see it. I love the building itself. You'll have to teach me to appreciate the art."

"Anything you want to see up north?" Hill asked. "Yankee Stadium?" she asked slyly.

"Heck no!" the lifelong Dodger fan avowed.

Maria swung the helicopter past the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, then west to the Hudson. She followed the river south.

"That's Lincoln Center," Maria said, pointing out the hard-to-miss, 16-acre complex. "It's a performing arts venue. The New York Phil, the Metropolitan Opera and the New York City Ballet."

"I thought the Philharmonic played at Carnegie Hall," Steve said. With his eyes on the green expanse of Central Park, Steve had missed seeing Carnegie Hall on the way north.

"Not any more. But it's still open for a variety of performers," Leslie said.

"How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" Maria asked, laughing.

"Practice!" Leslie answered.

Steve laughed. It was an old joke, but not as old as Steve.

"I was afraid Carnegie Hall might have been torn down," he confessed.

"No, it's over there." Maria pointed, turning the copter slightly to put the famous venue in full view before heading south again.

"This is about where the Lincoln Tunnel is," Leslie commented. "You can see the highway heading toward the river on either side."

"Madison Square Garden is to the left," Maria said.

Leslie pointed out the incongruously round building.

Steve looked confused. "The Garden is more uptown, at 50th Street," he protested.

The women looked at each other, then Leslie pulled up Google again. "I know this isn't the original Madison Square Garden," she said. "Oh, this is the fourth one. This one opened in 1968. The third one was at 50th. Ah, and the first two were actually at Madison Square."

"I'd always wondered where it got its name," Maria said. "Actually, that's a lie. I never thought about it. That was just the name."

Steve started to say something about sneaking into Madison Square Garden to see Joe Louis fight Red Burman in 1941, but his attention was caught by a streak of green.

"What's that!" he exclaimed.

"That's the High Line," Leslie said. "They took an old railroad track and made it into a park."

"I might have ridden on that track," Steve said. He marveled at the elevated green space.

"It was part of the West Side Line," Maria said. "I went there with a friend. He was fascinated with the history."

"I'd like to see that," Steve said. "I'd like to see a lot of things from ground level."

"We have time," Leslie assured him.

:OK, hang on," Maria said. "We're going to visit the Lady." She tilted the copter and accelerated toward the harbor.

* * *

 _A/N: First publication of the Carnegie Hall joke seems to be in the 1950s. It might have been used in vaudeville earlier, but we'll assume Steve never heard it. Yes, I look this stuff up. That's why this story has been so hard to write._

 _I'm still finding it hard to get the energy to write, but tomorrow is the first anniversary of this story, so I thought I ought to post something._


	25. Lady Liberty and Captain America

_A/N: No I haven't abandoned this story. I've just got a lot extra work to do these days._

* * *

 **Lady Liberty and Captain America**

The helicopter headed out over the Hudson River headed toward the gleaming green Statue of Liberty.

Leslie was studying the map on her phone. "I never realized the Statue of Liberty was in New Jersey," she commented.

"It isn't!" Steve exclaimed, an outraged New Yorker to the core. "It belongs to New York!"

"But it's on the New Jersey side of the Hudson," Hill said.

Steve huffed.

"Actually, it belongs to the federal government," Leslie said, reading further. She laughed. "According to some old court case, all the parts of Liberty Island above the water are in New York, below the water it's New Jersey."

"Lord!" Hill rolled her eyes.

"I guess that means some clams are New Yorkers at low tide and New Jerseyites at high tide," Leslie said, tongue in cheek.

Steve crossed his arms and pretended to sulk, but the corner of his mouth was twitching in amusement.

"We're coming up on Ellis Island," Hill announced. "Who does it belong to?"

"Again the federal government," Leslie answered after some diligent scrolling. "But it's mostly in New Jersey, according to the Supreme Court in 1998."

"But still partly New York," Steve insisted.

"Twenty percent New York," Leslie agreed. "Per an agreement in 1834, New York owned the island up to the 1890s, but New Jersey owned the water. When New York expanded the island, using dirt that came from constructing the New York subway system, New Jersey cried foul, claiming New York was stealing their property. They squabbled over it for 160 years, until finally the Supreme Court found for New Jersey and said 90 percent of the island was Jersey. But since it's part of the Statue of Liberty National Monument, it really belongs to the feds."

Leslie's eyes had gone ahead to the famed statue, but Steve stared down at the connected pair of squares that formed Ellis Island. Hill obligingly slowed their pace so he could study it.

"My parents came through there," he said quietly. "A healthy young Irish couple, ready and willing to work hard in America. They didn't have any trouble getting in. It's a good thing I hadn't been born yet. With all my health problems, I would have been marked unfit. They might have been turned away and they didn't have anything to go back to in the Old Country. Most of their family had died in a famine — not the "Great Potato Famine," but a later one. Ma always said there were more than enough famines to go around."

Steve looked sad, thinking of his family's hardships. Leslie squeezed his arm.

"But they did make it here and started a new life," she reminded him.

"Yeah, it wasn't easy. A lot of people didn't want to hire the Irish, but the Army was willing when the war started. My father was killed before I was born." Steve gave a watery smile. "Ma sent him a letter when she found out she was expecting. His letter in return was one of her most treasured possessions. Her proof to me that Da was so happy to know they would have a child together."

"He would have been proud of you," Leslie said with certainty. "You have always had a fighting spirit."

Steve barked a laugh. "Too much fighting, something," he admitted.

"We could take the ferry out there to visit," Leslie suggested.

"Maybe," Steve said noncommittally.

Leslie let it drop. It might be just one more reminder of everything he'd lost.

"Moving on to the statue," Hill announced.

Hill buzzed over to the nearby Liberty Island and slotted neatly into the formation of choppers rotating slowly around the National Monument at a respectful distance. Bizarrely, it reminded Leslie of the tweeting birds and stars that circled the head of a cartoon character who had been hit on the head. That had amused Leslie when she was a kid. Now that she thought of it, head trauma birdies just weren't funny.

She shook away the odd thought and focused on the statue. The helicopter was just coming around to the front.

Steve smiled. He'd never expected to get an up close view of the lady's face or her golden torch.

"She's beautiful," he breathed.

The women murmured agreement.

"Is that real gold on the torch?" Steve asked.

"Yes," Hill answered.

Leslie took a couple of photos, then opened up a page of trivia about the statue. "The statue was refurbished for its centennial in 1986," Leslie reported. "The original torch was replaced by a copper torch that is covered with 24 karat gold leaf. The statue itself is covered with sheets of copper that are thinner than the thickness of a penny."

"Can you climb up to the torch?" Steve asked. "My ma and da did it once, but they closed it when I was a baby."

"No, it's still closed. You can climb up to the crown. There are 154 steps from the pedestal to the crown," Leslie said. She made a face.

"Not up for it?" Steve teased.

"It would have to be a very good day for my arthritis," Leslie said. "I did it when I was younger, so I don't feel like I need to do it again. I'd be glad to wait for you at the base, however."

"I'm sure you wouldn't have any trouble making the climb," Hill contributed.

Looking for more trivia, Leslie touched a link, then caught her breath. The others heard it.

"I accidentally clicked on a website," Leslie said. "Top 5 symbols of the USA. No. 1 is the flag, No. 2 is Uncle Sam, No. 3 is the Statue of Liberty, and No. 5 is the bald eagle."

"What's No. 4?" Hill asked.

"Captain America," Leslie answered, turning the phone so Steve could see the heroic image.

Steve studied the picture. "That's not me," he protested.

"No, it's an actor who played you in a movie." Hill chuckled. "One of the better movies."

"You just say that because of the shirtless scene," Leslie accused.

"Shirtless!" Steve exclaimed.

The women giggled. "That's not the only reason," Hill protested. "It has great action scenes and an actual multicultural cast."

"OK, you're right," Leslie agreed. "It is one of the best."

"One of … how many movies are there?"

"Lots," Leslie said. "A couple of the earliest are white supremacist trash. All the Commandos are white and the only woman is a vapid secretary."

"The one from the '60s is worse," Hill said. "It's a Vietnam Era anti-war movie. Cap is practically a villain."

"Then there's the newest one by Steven Spielberg — a highly respected director," Leslie told Steve. "It won a lot of awards, including the Best Picture Oscar, but the violence is too realistic for my taste."

"None of them sounds like something I'd want to see," Steve said.

Leslie knuckled his shoulder. "You lived it. You don't need to watch it on film."

"I think you would like Spike Lee's version. He's a black director. His movie focused on Gabe Jones during the war and after. Cap was a secondary character," Hill said.

"I like that idea," Steve agreed.

"Everyone had their own interpretation of your life," Leslie said. "I hope someday you get to tell your own story."

Steve looked doubtful.

"You could draw your own comic book," she coaxed.

"That sounds like something I could do," Steve agreed. "But who'd be interested in reading it?"

"Anyone, everyone," Leslie said instantly. "You are the No. 4 most recognized symbol of the USA," she reminded him. "All these movies good and bad, and the books, the comics … they've all kept Captain America in the public's eye. But people only know Cap. No one knows Steve Rogers. That's the story you can tell."

Steve blushed.

"Are we done at the statue?" Hill asked. "There are other air tours that would like to take our place."

Steve blushed again to think a discussion about Captain America movies had taken attention away from a National Landmark. Of course, they were looking at the back of her head right now.

"Yes, thank you," Steve said.

"My pleasure," Hill answered, as she backed the helicopter away. "Moving on. Next stop, Brooklyn."

* * *

 _A/N: Still no guarantees about weekly updates, but I'll keep plugging along. I've written the final chapter, but we have about 10 days Steve time until we get there. Anything you'd like to see? Any topic you'd like to see covered? We won't be traveling far. No meeting Peggy. No meeting any other Avengers. No major action but I have a couple of ideas for little stuff. Nothing that would reveal Steve as a super._

 _See you next week, I hope. Next weekend is my birthday weekend, so I hope to earn some reviews._


	26. Brooklyn

_A/N: If it's not one thing it's another. We had a plumbing leak. Not too much damage, but there's paperwork! So much paperwork!_

* * *

 **Brooklyn**

Steve strained forward to see the familiar shoreline of his home borough. He didn't need to; it was just a mile as the helicopter flies from the Statue of Liberty to the Brooklyn Bridge.

But it was years since Steve had been home, even not counting the time he'd been frozen. From here in mid-harbor, Steve could pretend nothing had changed. The Staten Island Ferry cruised below and the two bridges nearly side by side crossed the East River, with the eponymous Brooklyn Bridge in the forefront.

Hill circled the Brooklyn Bridge, giving Steve a good long look. The shapes of the cars were different, but the bridge looked unchanged. Steve brushed a tear from his eye.

They headed south, following the coast, past the docks where Bucky had worked. Steve saw Prospect Park off to the left. It seemed green and … pink? "I think you're right about the cherry blossoms being in bloom," he said.

"We'll come back over the park and get a better look," Hill promised.

As they swung around the southern coast of Brooklyn, Steve saw Coney Island. He grinned when he saw the gleam and swoop of the Cyclone roller coaster. He remembered Bucky daring him to ride it, which hadn't gone so well for Steve's stomach or Bucky's shoes. Steve remembered hoarding their pennies for a hotdog and drinking from the water fountain to save their money for saltwater taffy. They laughed and shoved each other as kids and flirted with the girls when they were older. Well, Bucky flirted. Steve had been too shy.

Another tear welled up in his eyes. He wiped it away brusquely, not wanting to miss a moment.

The helicopter cruised toward Prospect Park, one of Steve's mother's favorite places. He could see the cherry blossoms through a watery blur. He blinked to clear his view. His mother had loved strolling the paths beneath the flowering boughs. If she hadn't been accompanied by two rambunctious boys anxious to get to the carousel, she could have spent hours admiring the formal gardens, where the flowers changed as the seasons progressed. She'd say the gardens were her favorite part, until they got to the meadow and the woodlands, which reminded her of her girlhood in rural Ireland. Then she'd decide the Long Meadow was her favorite part — especially since the boys could run and play to their hearts' desire. She spent many a peaceful afternoon sunning on a blanket while Steve and Bucky played tag or tossed a ball around. Peaceful mornings had been rare for the hardworking single-mother. Steve appreciated the memory more as an adult than he had as a child.

Sometimes the whole Barnes clan came along and they had a more lively time with a well-filled picnic basket and an ice cream treat from a passing vendor. After 1929, the picnic had been skimpier and the ice cream treat had been one cup shared among all the children. More often than not, Bucky and Steve let Bucky's younger sisters have the ice cream, because they were big boys. Their generosity usually earned them a penny for candy, so no one felt deprived.

Many of Steve's best childhood memories involved Prospect Park. And from the air it hardly looked like it had changed at all.

He automatically looked for the green of Ebbets Field, even though Leslie had told him it was gone. All he saw were buildings.

This area, now, must be his old neighborhood, though the shape was different. He'd never seen it from the air, of course, but he'd seen maps and he'd looked at the view from the bridge. Now the view looked different.

Now there was a sprawling store with an oversized parking lot where there should have been a row of tenements where he and Bucky had lived. The old buildings had been falling apart when Steve lived there. It shouldn't have been a surprise that they had been demolished, but it was. God, the whole street was gone.

Steve was glad he was up in the air where details blurred. Or maybe that was because of his tears.

Brooklyn wasn't the same any more. It was still home, and yet it wasn't.

"Could we … Could we go back to Manhattan, please," he said in a choked voice.

"Of course," Hill answered sympathetically. "Should I head back to SHIELD? We can end this anytime you want."

"No, I want to see the Empire State Building," Steve said. He rubbed his eyes fiercely, angry at himself for spoiling what had been his first happy day in this new time. "Brooklyn … there are too many memories in Brooklyn, but Manhattan was just a place to visit."

Although, those visits brought memories, too.

The rare trips to Manhattan had always meant visits to a museum or a landmark or another treat.

Steve remembered he and his ma and Bucky's family standing on the wind-swept observation deck of the Empire State Building, gawking at the view. He'd never been so high. He remembered Becca Barnes clinging to her big brother's hand, as she leaned out to look the long way down. Bucky had gripped her tightly so she would feel safe.

Steve forced away the thought that all those people — his family — were lost to time and he focused on the fun and excitement they'd felt on their family trip to Manhattan.

Thinking about Bucky's family reminded Steve that the three Barnes girls were younger. Maybe. Maybe everyone wasn't lost.

"Leslie." The word was clogged. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You have information about Peggy and the Commandos … do you have anything on Bucky's family?"

Leslie tilted her head in thought. "No," she decided. "I didn't think to look for that. But I can. I will, as soon as we're done."

Steve relaxed. He hoped, maybe, he still had family somewhere.


	27. Memorial

**Memorial**

Steve tried to pull himself out of his funk, as the helicopter flew back toward Manhattan, passing over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It's not all gone, he reminded himself. The bridge is still here. Prospect Park is still here, still with its big meadow for picnicking. The Empire State Building is still there, still visible in the distance, though it didn't dominated the New York skyline as it had in his day.

Steve expected them to head up the East Side of Manhattan to see the Empire State Building, but Maria swung toward the Lower West Side.

"We need to avoid some police activity," she explained.

"Not in a hurry," Steve reassured her.

In fact, they were following a route Steve knew well. Radio Row had been a regular stop for Steve and Bucky in the late 1930s.

Bucky had been a tinkerer. He kept all the radios in the building operating, fine tuning each to reduce static and improve fidelity. He became adept at tightening wires and replacing parts. Their own radio had been secondhand when Sarah Rogers received it from a grateful patient. It was scuffed and battered on the outside with cracks in the veneer and a Bakelite knob that had a chunk missing. But it worked just fine thanks to vacuum tubes and other parts Bucky found on Radio Row.

And it was just a fun place to hang out. Bucky could take his time poking through the bins of vacuum tubes, looking for one with perfectly straight pins and no discoloration, while around them were forty or fifty stores all with radios blasting. The young men could find any show or any ballgame playing somewhere within the bedlam. Men debating the latest news or the controversial play on the base pads.

That was where they got their first taste of new-fangled "television." A dozen big boxes with tiny screens playing up and down the street and you could see the Dodgers big as life! Well, about as big as they looked from the nosebleed seats in the top row of the stadium. The picture was tiny and black and white, but it was still a marvel.

Steve remembered the modern big, flat screen, color TV back in his apartment. The technology had come a long way. They didn't need bins of vacuum tubes any more.

Steve was prepared for Radio Row to be changed. He wasn't prepared for the streets to be gone.

There was a lot of construction going on in the area and the focal point seemed to be two square pools of water surrounded by dozens, maybe hundreds of trees, regularly spaced and evenly sized, with an odd wedge-shaped building nearby.

"What's that?" Steve asked.

The women followed his gaze then exchanged a solemn glance. Hill left the answer up to Leslie, because she was the one responsible for Steve's assimilation.

"That's the 9/11 Memorial," Leslie said solemnly. "It's a memorial to the people who died in the worst terrorist attack in the United States."

She told him about the attack on Sept. 11, 2001, when terrorists hijacked four jetliners. One was crashed into the Pentagon, one crashed into a field in Pennsylvania after the passengers tried to retake the jet, and the other two were deliberately crashed into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

"The two pools down there mark the footprints of the Twin Towers," Maria contributed.

"The towers were the tallest buildings in New York City, the tallest buildings in the world for a couple of years," Leslie said. "They had 110 floors. They completely collapsed."

"There must have been thousands of people in those buildings," Steve said soberly.

"Nearly 3,000 people were killed in the 9/11 attacks, including the people on the planes and the terrorists. More than 400 police and firefighters were killed, trying to fight the fires and rescue people from the buildings."

"It was a horrible day," Hill said. "I was working, trying to raise money to go to college. The 9/11 attack spurred me to join the military instead."

"I'm not ashamed to say I'm happy I wasn't in New York at the time of the attack. I was on vacation at home in California. When I woke up, Mom had the TV on with the announcer speaking so solemnly, I knew something horrible had happened," Leslie said. "All planes were grounded for a couple of days and even after that, it was difficult to get back to New York. Rescue efforts went on for days, though only a few people were found alive after the buildings collapsed. When I finally got back to New York, I was put to work tabulating the lists of the dead and injured."

"It's terrible how many people died. But it's remarkable how many escaped," Hill said, wanting to relieve the grim atmosphere.

Leslie confirmed her words, checking facts on her phone. "There may have been 17,000 people in the towers. There are many stories about people helping others to escape. Eleven people in wheelchairs were carried down hundreds of flights of stairs, mostly by strangers. Two blind men were led to safety by their guide dogs. The event was horrifying, but also inspiring."

"Who were these terrorists? Why did they want to attack us?" Steve asked.

"An Islamic terrorist group called al-Qaeda claimed responsibility," Leslie said. "Their reasons, or their excuses, are complex and varied. We'll find some books on the topic. I can't explain it. I don't really understand it," she confessed.

"I've been looking for some history books for you," Hill said. "Trying to find ones that didn't have agendas. I have a couple of well-respected post-war history books and one on recent history." She gave him a quick glance and a grin. "I thought you might feel more comfortable with books. Then you can use the internet to find more information, videos, photos and such."

Steve was grateful. Books were old friends.

"Now, let's get on to the Empire State Building," Hill said.

Steve thought it was pretty neat to see the Empire State Building from the level of the Observation Deck where he had been. He was glad the beautiful old building was still standing.

Hill gestured to the east. "And over there is the United Nations."

"What's that?" Steve asked.

Leslie banged her head against her fist.

* * *

 _A/N: Cobie Smulders would have been 19 at the time of 9/11. Just the right age to be inspired to join the military._

 _OMG, it took me so long to get to the 9/11 Memorial, which was my purpose for the helicopter flight. Only modest research conducted on all topics. Don't quote me in your history essays._

 _Last week I posted a Very Good Team Halloween story. Probably another Team holiday story next week._


End file.
